


"Hello, Goodbye" (Part II of "Carry that Weight")

by waveofahand



Series: McLennon Angst Series [2]
Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Beatles 1966, Bigger than Jesus, Canon Divergence, F/M, First Time, It's McDaddy, It's McLennon, It's McNeedy, John and Paul are going to suffer some more, John is still a mess, Loss of Virginity, M/M, PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO TRIGGER WARNINGS, PTSD, Paul's sense of his body isn't quite healthy yet, Sexual Dysfunction, Sexual recovery after rape, Some adorable phone flirting going on, Suicidal Thoughts, The Beatles Tours from Hell, The sex is more explicit than usual from me, This is an immediate continuation of "Carry that Weight", a little fluff, a new threat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/pseuds/waveofahand
Summary: This isan immediate continuation of "Carry that Weight", and pics up on New Years Eve/Day 1966. It begins with someone being accidentally dosed with LSD, and with Paul gleaning an insight that helps him feel stronger and more able to recover some of his sexual energy, which is pretty explicitly covered in the first three chapters. After that, the angst comes, hard and heavy, as events force the investigation into Paul's rape into a new area. John's bad judgement continues as his own PTSD goes unaddressed. The boys must head into the recording studio, and then all the touring troubles begin. 1966 is not a happy year.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney Original Female Character, Paul McCartney/Jane Asher, Paul McCartney/Original Male Character
Series: McLennon Angst Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2156847
Comments: 136
Kudos: 75





	1. Hello, Kitty!

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we go. BOOK TWO of "Carry that Weight" is called "Hello, Goodbye" and it starts off with sex. Loud, and rather a lot of it.  
> I know, I'm surprised too.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realizing that a bad trip may end up forcing Paul to relive his horrific rape, John Lennon drags George Harrison into trying to recover the LSD-laced cube John has stupidly slipped into Paul's sugar bowl. They think they've managed it until John realizes he's done another stupid thing. Meanwhile, Jane is remembering her first time with Paul (explicit) and Paul is preparing to tell Jane about Michelle and hoping for a sexy evening.
> 
> This chapter has more sex in it than any I've ever written, but I needed to show Paul as he used to be, and as he is, post-rape, as he takes baby steps to get back to where he once belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope ya'll like this. Please stick with me. It's going to get hairy again, very soon. Lot's of hurt and suffering coming.

“I don’t understand, John, why, why must you go out with George tonight,” Cynthia Lennon was querying her husband over the wails of an inconsolable Julian who was not able to tell her what was wrong. “Jules is out of sorts, and I could really use you here.”

“You’ve got your mother, haven’t you?” It was a sneer. Everything out of John’s mouth, all afternoon, had been a sneer. Whatever Paul had said to John as they’d taken a turn about the garden had left him rattled -- unsettled and angry. _But, with himself, somehow_ , she realized.

Paul [had seemed fine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/71831814) – better than he’d been since that terrible night. But something about his visit, about their private talk, had jarred John deeply, and he’d been a miserable bastard (in the way only John Lennon could be a miserable bastard), to all and sundry ever since. And now he said he needed George. _Needs_ George, _needs_ Paul, _needs_ Brian. _Almost never needs me,_ Cyn had thought.

She’d heard him on the phone, sounding like he needed to convince Hazza -- calling him “Joey” which he only did when he really wanted something of the younger man. Apparently, he’d gotten it. An hour later she heard George’s impatient horn from the driveway and realized with a sinking heart that Patti would likely not be staying with her for a visit while the two men were out for God only knew how long.

Cyn had hoped for it. Hoped for a bit of company besides her disapproving mother and this beautiful, squalling child. She looked at the clock. “How long will you be,” she asked John. “And what are you doing with my sugar cubes?”

He merely shot her a look as he shut the door.

“Sugar cubes… just great,” she sighed, wishing — quite unusually— for some other life. _I guess they’re going to meet a chemist_ …

“Nothing of the sort,” John would have told her if he could've managed a civil word directed her way. He felt like shit as he sat beside a rather taciturn George Harrison, who had really not been in the mood to drive into London. “I can’t help it if Paulie won’t move out here,” he had groused when John had asked him for the lift. “And I’m not in the mood. Hate London traffic, don’t I?”

“Please, Joey,” John had begged. “I’ll need nothing of your time while we’re there – you can just sit in the car and I’ll be back in ten minutes. I promise.”

“But why, though,” the youngest Beatle had sighed. “What’s so bleedin’ important, anyway?”

“If you’ll drive me there, I’ll tell you everything,” Lennon promised. “I’m just… I can’t trust myself to drive it, Geo. My hands are already shaking, ain’t they?”

And so, George had reluctantly picked him up, his frown so deep his eyebrows looked connected. Once they were on the highway, he turned off the radio and glared at John, who was clutching a half-used box of sugar cubes in his hands as though it were gold. “Okay, Lennon,” Geo ordered in a tight voice. “ _Spill_.”

It took a few minutes. John worked his jaw as though he wished to speak but couldn’t make the words come out. Finally he managed, “I did something bad, Geo.”

Hazza waited, but when nothing else was forthcoming he dared to speculate. “John, the other day [you begged me for a dosed cube](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/71831814), and swore it wouldn’t be used alone. Now you’ve got me on this damned ridiculous drive while you’re hangin’ on to a box of sugar like it’s your lifeline. Should I guess?”

“You can’t guess,” John was looking down, shame-faced. “You’ll never guess. You can’t ever think I’m this bad, because I never thought it, until today.”

“You were going to give it to Paul, weren’t you,” George said in a quiet voice. “You were gonna dose him the way we was dosed last spring.”

Wordless tears leapt into John’s eyes as he nodded and blubbered out something unintelligible.

“I can’t believe you, John," Hazza sounded exasperated with him. "You're telling me you've done the very thing to Paul that started up this whole nightmare, slippin’ him a drug without his knowin'. After all he’s been through, how could you do it?” Harrison sighed, tamping down his sense of outrage. He kept his eyes on the road, unwilling to witness John’s regret, or to relieve him of it.

“I know, I know…but I wasn’t thinking straight. You saw me, Geo. You know I wasn’t right while he was gone.”

“So, that’s all right then, is it? Makes it okay?”

“No,” John admitted. “No… I realized it this morning…yeah, how could I do it? Dopin' him all unawares... it makes me as bad as them, Hazza. As bad as the men who raped him.”

“Well,” George shrugged as though wanting to disagree, but said nothing more. _Because perhaps John isn’t wrong, not entirely. Such a selfish, bastard thing to do_. But no, he couldn’t be right, either could he? _John would never do what those men had done. And he wasn't trying to be malicious_ , Geo thought. _At least, I don't think..._ With another sigh, he tried to find the right words to help John get out of it, as much as possible. “So, you figured… what, John? That if he tripped out a bit it would get him over some... psychic hump? Make him feel better? Get past bein' gang raped?”

Lennon let go with a great gasp of regret. “Yes. No. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he sobbed. “I—I just want him back, Geo, you know? Like he was?”

“Well, we all want that, John--”

“Yes, yes, but it’s different for me. It’s _different!”_ He sounded like a teenager, certain no one else in the world could understand him. Geo simply nodded his head. “I suppose it is. But John…" He looked over at the man he'd once considered the epitome of being "cool" and shook his head, not even trying to mask his keen disapproval. " _Not the thing,_ son. Especially given his feelings on it. I mean, he’s wrong to not try it all, I get that, but--”

“What if he uses it, Joey? Slips it into his tea and then, and then…” He heaved a huge breath over his own anxious tears. “What if he ends up reliving it all, the whole rape, the whole fucking… Once I realized it, I just—I just-- I have to replace the sugar before he gets to it.”

 _“Shit.”_ John could feel the car pick up speed as George stepped on it. “I never thought of that. For Christ’s sake, John! How do you know he hasn’t already? What if we get there and he’s…and it’s… and he’s fucking _alone_ , isn’t he? You told me the stuff wouldn’t be used alone--”

“He came home early and didn’t call me,” John explained hurriedly as he wiped his nose with a sleeve. “How was I supposed to know? But he’s got a date with Jane, tonight, he’s taking her out, so…so, if I can get in there while they’re out…”

“Assuming they’re out and he’s not lying in the middle of his flat thinkin’ that four men are tearing his ass apart again, aye?”

John was silent. George had just exactly anticipated his greatest fear, that while preparing for his date with Jane, Paul had made himself a cuppa, and was now in the throes of re-experiencing… _all of that. I—no. God please, no._

“ _Johnny, if I ever had to relive all that… I couldn’t. I_ _wouldn’t_ _.”_ Paul's own words from this morning were echoing in John's ears. His partner had just recounted the horrendous trip their friend John Dawson had endured after drinking some spiked champagne. He'd turned to Lennon with eyes full of agony. _I’d kill myself if it all started happening, even if it was just in my head, even if I somehow knew it wasn’t real. I’d kill myself before I’d go through it again. I would, Johnny.”_

 _Christ in heaven, I need to fix this_ , John thought to himself, and it felt like the most fervent prayer of his life.

***

Paul was due to pick her up in less than an hour, and the big question on Jane Asher’s mind was whether or not she should wear the unusual gold and diamond bangle he had given her, so unexpectedly, on Christmas Eve. He’d had the thing engraved with the word “Lover” on one of the curved sides and then the word “Friend” on the other – directly opposite. Currently, Jane was spinning the bracelet about her wrist like a roulette wheel, wondering on which word it would land.

_Lover. Friend. What am I to him? What is he to me? I knew us both so much better before he was ra—hurt. Before he was hurt. My poor love. And he won’t talk to me about that, will he?_

Friend. Lover.

_Well, tonight we’ll sort that out. I love him, but I can’t just let him do this to me. Kiss me like a lover before the fire and then get scared, and then disappear without a word for almost a week._

She wanted to understand it, she really did. Because she wanted to forgive it. But Jane Asher, not yet twenty years-old, nevertheless knew who she was, and how she deserved to be treated. She had expectations in that regard, and knew there were men out there who would drop everything to meet them, were she not already with Paul. And Paul… _Paul has always been such a problem… my beautiful, exasperating, arrogant, humble, headstrong, unpredictable, sweet and sour problem._

She spun the bracelet again, watching the warmth of the gold become overpowered by the glittery cold brightness of the diamonds, like fire and ice somehow co-existing. Like Jane and Paul and all the ways they shouldn’t go together. She really didn’t know what to make of it, what the bracelet meant. An engagement ring was much clearer in that regard, but neither of them felt ready for that. Still, Paul had made a point of kissing the bangle before he’d slipped it on to her wrist. So romantic. It seemed to mean something to him, if only a promise that he would try to bring himself along, if Jane could be patient. And she had kissed it too, _as though to say ‘I will’,_ she thought now. _A silent sort of vow, or at least, yes, a promise._

And she’d meant it, when she did it – had been incredibly moved by the moment. They'd sealed it with a kiss, and it had been good. Mostly good, [before Paul had panicked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/65765080). And then he had abandoned her to keep a promise to a priest – she couldn’t even imagine what that was about -- and said he’d see her in a few days.

But he never came around, and never called. When Jane called his flat, the phone would ring and ring. No answer, no answer, time and again, until Jane had flown into a panic, wondering if something had happened. She became terrified by the thought that he’d gone into a bad spiral of depression – Christmas could do that to people, couldn’t it? _What if he’s hurt himself? What if he…_ No, but he wouldn’t; he never would! Would he?

Finally, recalling that he was meant to stay at the Lennons’ she’d called Cynthia, unable to disguise how frantic she felt.

“He’s in France.” Cynthia’s tone had been hesitant. She wasn’t sure what she should or should not tell this girl, but at any rate, saying this much could not hurt. The poor thing sounded so worried.

“ _France?_ ” Jane was dumbfounded. “What in God's name is he doing in France? He never said anything about that…”

“I know, dear, and it’s ridiculous that he didn’t call and tell you. Very wrong of him and he’s usually more thoughtful than that. Perhaps he will call, once he is settled. It was rather a last-minute idea on his part.”

“But, why? _Why_ is he in France? He’s supposed to be seeing his father in Wirral! What do you mean ‘last minute’? What has happened? Who is he with? Is John with him?”

The question surprised Cynthia but only for a moment, before she realized that if John had suddenly taken off for parts unknown, she’d assume Paul was with him, too. _It's not like they've never done that before_ , she thought, remembering another sudden departure by the duo, supposedly headed to Spain but never getting past Paris.

“No, love, he left by himself. We woke up on Boxing Day to a note saying he was off to France, to meet his--” Cynthia hesitated. “To meet someone he’s never met.”

“Well that’s…” Jane didn’t even know what to call it.

“Very strange,” Cyn finished for her. “But you know how impulsive Paul can be when he gets an idea in his head…”

Well, that was true enough, Jane considered, remembering how Paul had told her the night they met that she was the girl for him. “I can see you’re a good girl,” he’d told her after protectively escorting her away from John Lennon’s drunken, bitter vulgarities They’d sat in the bedroom of a stranger’s house – a noisy party going on down below – and Jane had expected him to make a move on her, at least a small one. She even supposed she’d not mind a bit of snogging, if he tried. She was only seventeen, then – _just turned_ seventeen a few days earlier – and curious enough to be willing to kiss this handsome stranger who (with his excellent manners and scouser accent) seemed at once a prince and a walking burlesque.

But he’d never tried anything, not that night. They’d talked poetry and food and he’d quoted a bit of Chaucer to her in Old English and she'd found herself charmed by the odd, breathy huskiness of his voice, so at odds with the crystalline clarity of his top notes, she knew, and by his expressive face – _too handsome to be human_ , she’d thought. She found it sweet, the way he played with his fingers, like a little boy, looking down into his lap or biting at himself, whenever the conversation got a bit personal. Paul had taken her home and walked her to the door, holding her hand but very gently. He'd charmed Jane's phone number out of her and then kissed her on the cheek, and...

 _And that was that_ , she thought now. _We were together, a couple. Dating_ , except there was no way Beatle Paul could be out and about _dating_ anyone. 

It had never been an easy relationship. She fell for him – not immediately, but quickly enough. And he seemed to fall for her. But he was always conscious of their ages, of his own youth and how disinclined he was to settle down. “We’ve both got a great deal to accomplish, haven’t we, love?” And she would agree, wholeheartedly. She wanted to grow in her career, too, and was much too young to think about settling down. Except…

Except while they agreed on that, Paul seemed to feel that until he was married, he should be perfectly free to sow his oats, sleep around so boldly (and with apparently prodigious verve) that Jane didn't always believe the gossips, didn't believe he’d actually been with as many girls as the rumors had it -- in London, all over Europe, in North America. She simply didn't believe any one man could manage it.

 _Although he does have ridiculous energy in that department_ , she smiled now to herself until the next thought intruded and stole it away. _Or he used to_.

Given everything she’d learned of that sexual energy over time, it was surprising to consider how he’d not pushed her or seriously tried to take her to bed too quickly. “I’m no cradle robber,” he’d teased her once, after a heavy snogging session that had left her panting and cradling his hips and churning against him. He'd answered her with a slow grind of his own before finally, very gently, disentangling himself from her thighs.

“Ugh, Paul, _please…”_

“Not yet, lovie. When you’re ready.”

“I’m on the pill! I’m _ready!”_ Jane had groaned as his hands and weight left her. She’d wriggled her hips at him while he adjusted himself in his own straining discomfort, and in return he’d given her one of those looks – playful but serious, letting her know there was a line that good girls didn’t cross-- and she’d stopped trying to convince him. She’d learned early on that when Paul decided he was right about something, there was no moving him, and he seemed to feel there would be “a right time, and a right place, love. Nothing shoddy for my girl.”

 _Well, sure. But he left me in agony plenty of nights while he was still getting his own, wasn’t he?_ But “they’re nothing, love, nothing to me,” Paul would reassure her. “You wouldn’t want me to treat you like them, would you? As just another shag?” 

“You talk about it as though it’s nothing but a throat clearing for you,” Jane would shake her head. ‘ _Ahem_ , oh, pardon my sperm, Miss!’ It's like these women are just pot holes in the road that you happen to fall into. ‘Whoops, tripped a bit and ended up inside you, love! What’s your name, then? Abigail? Thanks for the tup, Abby!’”

Paul had thrown his head back in appreciative laughter, marveling at how perfectly Jane had mimicked his cadence and accent. He denied only the last charge. “No, love, unfair! I never presume to nickname a girl without permission.”

“No, you just call them all ‘cake’ and go for seconds!”

“C’mere, now, you clever little puss,” he’d pulled her to him, gurgling again, and nearly, _very nearly_ giving in to her.

It hadn’t been too long after that, though, that ‘the right time and the right place’ showed itself. He, John, and Brian had been attending a luncheon at a hotel, and a room had been booked for some private discussion before and after, but they men had never returned to it. And Paul had the key. “What are you doin’ just now, Jane, love,” he had purred over the phone.

“Just reading,” she’d purred back.

“Anything good?”

“ _Peyton Place_. It’s a terrible book, but I’m not reading it for its literary value.”

“Oh, that’s a naughty one, I know. And no, no literary value at all.”

“You’ve read it, then, have you?”

“Little girl, I could recite it to you if you want…pages and pages of it.”

“No, really,” she challenged him. “Tell me a line.”

“Panting like an animal, thick with lust, almost out of his head with lust, he drove his throbbing, engorged manhood between her huge, hard breasts and rutted, squeezing them together until she moaned, thick with lust. And he was thick with lust, too. Lust and thickness. And panting.”

Jane fell into a fit of giggles. “If those lines are there, I haven’t hit them yet, but it’s really just that awful.”

“Why you reading it then, love? A good girl like you?”

“Well, you know, I'm curious. And I have a boyfriend who won’t do me like he should.”

Paul had groaned into the phone then, low and deep. “Well, it just so happens, baby, that this is precisely why I’m calling. I’ve got the place if you’ve the time…”

She’d arrived at the hotel like a rocket, face-flushed, hands trembling. Beneath her very plain day dress she was wearing a lacy bra, with knickers to match -- a set she'd been saving for just this occasion. “No stockings, love,” he’d wondered into her ear after he’d pulled her into the room and immediately pressed her into a wall, kissing her deeply and reaching below. Suddenly he was like an octopus. "It's a bad, bold one you are!" 

“It’s warm out,” Jane had gasped as she’d locked her legs around him.

“I know somewhere else it’s warm…hot, even.” He carried her to the bed and then settled her on his lap, surprising her with a glass of champagne.

“You’re not having any,” she looked about.

“No, love. If I have a glass of champagne, all you’ll have is disappointment when I fall asleep on top of you.”

“Who said you’re going to be on top?”

 _Well, he certainly settled that question_ , Jane recalled now. _He was all over me. Everywhere_.

Alcohol wasn’t new or particularly interesting to Jane, but she enjoyed the bubbles tickling her nose while Paul was tickling her neck with his lips, then tasting the wine on her, then moving on. He had drawn her hips against his, letting her feel his desire, and was slowly undoing the back zipper. “Shall we play James Bond, honey” he’d murmured into her neck, making her giggle. “You can be Kitty Whipps, the beautiful red-headed spy who can’t resist.”

“How do you know I’m not already a beautiful red-headed spy, and I’m just using you to get information,” she’d teased.

But by then, Paul was slipping the little dress from her shoulders and getting his first glimpse of her underthings – the lacy black bra that pushed her up a little, gave a bit of cleavage – and he’d gasped and pulled back, clasping her small waist and simply admiring her. “Christ in heaven, girl,” he’d breathed. “You are so bloody spectacular.” He’d kissed her deeply, then, and his greedy hands were on her, thumbs passing over her nipples above the lace until she sighed, clinging to his shirt.

“I don’t want to play spy anymore, love,” he’d murmured in the lowest, sexiest tone he’d ever used with her. “No games. Just you and me," and he’d pulled her down into the bed with him, and then took his time.

So much time. _With his hands, with his mouth, biting me full on, just at the narrow of my waist -- who knew there was such a kink? Undressing me like he was unwrapping a treasure and then touching me like I was a china doll and he was a blind man trying to learn all its curves and secrets_. She remembered how he had kissed down her naked body, pausing at her breasts and mouthing her, suckling at her until she thought she would lose her mind – _quite the breast man, he is_ – and then smiling up at her as she begged. “Shush, love, settle down” he’d teased. “If you start off this loud, you’ll be bringing the police by the time we get there.”

“We're only just _starting?_ " She gasped the question and then registered an objection. "Just, _please, Paul_ , oh God.”  
  
"It’s a long and winding road, Janey,” he tutored, suddenly seeming much older than twenty-one, like a man with decades of experience in the bedroom. He brought out that smile again, this time as he reached between her legs, pressing his fingertips against her wetness and groaning at a fair decibel, himself. “Ah, you’re awash, love... saturated.”

“I can’t help it…”

“No, my little ginger kitty, you can’t. I wouldn’t want you to. But, good God. You won't mind if I have a little taste..."

“What?" Jane's head came up sharply. " _No,_ Paul! You can't be serious!" He wasn’t really going to put that insanely greedy mouth of his _there_ , was he? Jane's sense of modesty felt under assault. She covered herself with one hand, trying to bring her thighs together.

“Uh-uh, love,” he’d stopped her, holding her legs down and apart – gently but still not letting her move – and then biting at her inner thighs, nipping at the fingers covering her mound, until his incisor came down on her pinky and she pulled away. “Don’t do it,” she’d pleaded with him. “It’s…it’s…”

“Mmm,” he breathed in her scent very purposely, seeming to enjoy it, and then slipping two fingers into her wetness. “It’s _you,_ baby _._ Just a taste, Janey, love and then if you still want me to stop, I will, I promise.”

 _Does every man do this? And like it?_ She’d flung her arm over her eyes, too embarrassed to look, and wondered whether Paul was a complete pervert or just ridiculously in need of mouth toys, but finally nodded. He still had one hand on her thigh, pressing her down, while his other hand worked her. She could hear Paul murmuring his approval, praising her she let him spread her legs just a little wider, and she rather liked it. Always nice to be praised, and Paul had always been generous that way. Then she felt him insert a third finger -- felt herself stretched, and a little burn -- and then, like a magician, the friction of his heavily callused fingers suddenly produced a fire. With a sharp inhale, she stopped holding back, letting go with a high keen as her hips moved, reaching forward in response to his rhythmic thrusts. And then came the first touch of his tongue, soft, delicate, little feathery licks teasing at her softness, and she sighed, relaxing into it. She felt like a flower in an open field, and Paul's tongue, his action was so soft, like a butterfly landing on her petals, first here, then there, and the, suddenly... she could feel him everywhere. 

“Oh, God, Oh, _Jesus_ , Paul _what are you doing?”_

He didn’t answer. _Well, his mouth was busy, wasn’t it?_ Her thighs were suddenly trembling as his hands went to her hips, then circled her tiny waist, raising her up, his tongue licking into her, bringing her to right to the edge – Jane felt like all she needed was one more little press, one more mere touch of his tongue and she would be rocketing into a distant sky.

But he'd pulled his mouth away, wringing a wall-shaking cry of frustration from her.

 _He was smiling up at me, the bastard_ , she now recalled, _his lips and chin just shining with... me. And that ridiculous grin, all victorious because he knew I'd been loving it_. He'd climbed back up to her, then, a finger to his lips. “Getting’ loud again, you are, darlin'. Now kiss me.”

“Ew, no!”

“Mm, _yes_ ,” he insisted, licking into her mouth until she could taste what he wanted her to taste, and so deeply. And she’d wrapped her arms around him, groaning, her hips thrusting against him like a wanton, searching around, up and down, as though her body couldn’t understand why nothing was answering this crazy, frenzied need.

“Please…” _I was begging him_ , Jane remembered now. _And he was so sweet, so gentle, but so bossy, too_. _Wickedly bossy._

“Raise your knees, love,” he’d moaned into her ear. She did, and he brought her hand down to encircle him, leading her on. To her inexperienced hands he seemed huge and suddenly she became afraid. “It’s going to hurt,” she whispered.

“Do you want me to stop? Baby?” Paul was breathless, flushed, looking very much like a man who hated himself for daring to ask, because it meant he might have to listen.

“No…” Jane had sighed, her hips still churning. “It just… feels so big.”

He’d chuckled then, a self-denigrating laugh right into her neck. “Oh, you adorable little virgin. You have so much to learn, sweet…” He’d kissed her again then and, raising himself on one elbow, gave her a look that was warm and reassuring, but also loving. Actually loving. “Darlin', I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t think I will, not much.” Another slow smile. “But do you feel my fingers, how easily they’re moving? It doesn’t hurt?”

She shook her head, ‘no’ even as her hips seemed to be moving all by themselves still searching for ... _something._

“There's no hurt, because you’re very wet. And I’m very average, love. I promise I'll fit.” He’d put his hand over hers again, helping her to guide him inward. “And Janey, if I don’t have you now, I may die.”

“Me too,” she had breathed. "Please?"

In the years since, talking with close friends about ‘first things’, as women do, Jane had listened closely while others had blabbed the details about their first experiences – often laughing (or sighing in disappointment) about how graceless or clumsy their boyfriends had been. She herself would hold back, saying less rather than more, although everyone had questions about what it was like to be with the Cute Beatle. When the others would get dramatic about how painful things had been, she would say only that her own experience was “nothing like that; just a little discomfort for a moment, you know…” _because he’d seen to me so well, so carefully_. But that went unsaid, because Jane had decided it was no one’s business how Paul treated her in bed -- whether he was gentle when she needed gentle, playful when she wanted to play (or even role-play, like the actress she was), hard or even a trifle rough when that’s what she wanted. And when her friends admitted to ‘needing a few tries’ before they’d liked it – before they’d managed to reach to orgasm – she would only smile and look down. “That must have been frustrating,” she would demur. 

“What,” her friends would challenge her with skeptical looks. “Are you saying you came the first time? _Really?”_

“Oh, yes,” she’d admitted. “Quite easily.” _And not just once._

_***_

In the end, she’d worn the bracelet. With a resigned sigh, she'd decided it would be a good way to start the conversation: “So, which is it Paul? Am I a lover or a friend? Because a friend might [take off to France without a word](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/66241999), but a lover never would.”

He’d finally called her, while he was in Wirral. Not a long call, just a few minutes, to say where he was and to apologize for taking off like that. “It wasn’t planned, love. Just an impulse but I felt like I had to follow it. But I should have phoned you once I arrived.”

“Yes, you should have,” Jane had agreed.

“You sound unhappy. I’m sorry,” he’d answered simply. “It’s a long story, love and you deserve to hear it in person. I’ll explain it all when I get home, yeah? Will you have dinner with me?” The thought seemed to energize him. “Let’s do that, will you, Janey? Let me take you out to dinner! I know a quiet place and it will be a real date for us, yeah? We’ve had so few of those.”

She’d agreed because she’d found herself melting at his goofy enthusiasm, that husky tone… the idea of a date, like real people, normal people. It sounded strange and wonderful. And he'd gone whole-hog romantic on Jane, sending dozens of pink roses to her in anticipation of the evening. _Buttering me up_ , she thought to herself, but she smiled. She knew what pink roses signified to Paul McCartney, who so loved to use his mouth. She hoped it meant what she thought it meant.

“The roses,” she said quietly as Paul, eschewing the _maître d_ , held the chair for her. “They are gorgeous, Paul, thank you.”

She couldn’t help smiling as he unexpectedly kissed her cheek, murmuring, “you’re welcome love. All for you,” before taking his own seat and quickly ordering a white wine for Jane, and a whiskey for himself, to start. He lit her cigarette and one for himself and then seemed content to simply stare at her, smiling, his chin in hand.

“What,” she blushed.

“Nothing. I’m just happy to see you, sweetheart.”

“I have to ask,” Jane was looking around at the dark corners of the restaurant. “How did you find this place?”

“Brian brought us here for a late supper once, to talk about something. We liked it so well that John and I have come back a few times. It’s quiet, you know? No fans about.”

“That’s rather astonishing. You’d think once word got out--”

“Word doesn’t get out,” Paul corrected. “We’ve never brought anyone else here.”

“How disappointing for the owners,” Jane affected a snooty tone from down in her throat. “They probably thought you’d bring all the monied people around.”

“Plenty of money coming into this place,” he laughed. “Exiled nobility from Poland; cast off Russian royals and odd Romanov cousins and such. They come here for the same reason we do, you know. Excellent food and no peering eyes. Everyone who comes here wants not to be seen.”

“Hence the dark corners.”

“Aye, I’d forgotten about just how dark the place is. I’ll have to keep the candle close.”  
  
He meant he’d need to keep the candle close as he showed Jane the photographs of his daughter, but he waited for that. For now, he was presuming to order identical meals for both of them, “You have to try this, love, it’s not like anything in the world!” Jane permitted it because if a notoriously a poor eater like Paul McCartney said a dish was good, she trusted it. After ordering, he’d ducked his head, giving her a look across the table that was half ashamed, and half smiling, full of trepidation. 

“Alright, love, you’ve earned the right to take a few swings at me, so go on.”

The look, the words offered so softly -- they completely disarmed her, and Jane rolled her eyes. “Well, there’s really no point, now, is there? You’ve done what you’ve done. I just would like to understand why. Why France? Why so sudden?”

Paul had taken her hand and kissed it before answering. He appreciated the absence of a harangue, particularly since he did expect a smack across the face in due time. “It wasn’t sudden, you know. In fact, it was unforgivably slow. Or, I was, anyway.”

And then he simply told her everything, with no dressing. “It was way before we ever met, love, in Hamburg, and we were just kids. Eighteen years old. And I know it’s a cliché, now, but we really were just good friends. We still are. Good friends who somehow lost their heads one afternoon and ended up with a daughter.”

It was nothing she’d suspected. He hadn’t gone off to contemplate suicide, or to have an affair, but to meet his daughter, years too late. Just like a man. “[Your ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/67705084)_[daughter?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/67705084)”_

“Michelle,” he’d smoked, downing the last of his whiskey. “Marie-Michelle Pauline…”

One of Jane’s eyebrows went way up. “Don’t you supposedly have a dozen of them running around Hamburg and Liverpool,” she remarked. “Are you sure this one is yours?”

Paul nodded, reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing an envelope. “Very sure,” said, laying it before her and biting his lip.

Jane had taken the pictures up reluctantly expecting to see some indistinct, potato-faced blob that could be anyone’s child. Instead, after silently studying the photos by the light of a candle Paul helpfully kept near, looking closely at the four year old girl with the giant sloping eyes, the absurd lashes and black hair and the cleft chin, she lit a cigarette and laughed. “Well, bugger me sideways, Paul. That one’s yours, for certain.”

“Are you…” he began, not sure how to interpret that, “don't you-- won't you mind?”

“Mind what?”

“Well… the fact of her. That-that she’s out there, and her mother is too. and that they'll be part of me, now, for the rest of my life. _Our_ life, if it comes to that.”

“I guess it depends, doesn’t it?" Jane had said after thinking for a moment. "I mean... Do you _want_ them to be in your life, _our_ lives, if it comes to that? Or will an annual allowance keep them at bay?”

“She doesn’t need my money,” Paul frowned, a bit annoyed at the question, no matter how fair. “Sophie’s never asked for a dime off me, and wouldn’t. It’s not like that. No one is looking for a payoff.”

Jane noted how quickly the defensive words had come. _He likes her, likes being a daddy_. She sipped at her second glass of wine, running the tip of her tongue thoughtfully over her lip. “So, you _do_ want them in your life, then?” She picked up the picture of Paul, smiling as he held a sleeping Michelle, the dark-haired woman, Sophie, behind the two of them, all of the edges a trifle fuzzy and out of focus.

 _Metaphors before my eyes_ , Jane thought. _A fuzzy situation, indeed. No clear lines._

“Do you,” she repeated the question.

Paul reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it. “I do, Jane. I can’t live without that little girl in my life, now. And Sophie,” he could feel Jane’s hand grow tense. “Sophie is a friend I need. Someone who wants nothing at all from me but to be happy with our daughter.”

“A _friend_ ,” the young woman pondered, her eyes darting to her bracelet. “I guess perhaps right now you feel like you need more of them. Or, some new ones.”

He’d caught her look and now Paul was raising her wrist, spinning the bracelet in the same way Jane had, earlier, watching it catch the candlelight. A few silent moments passed before he sighed and looked up at her, making eye contact, a knowing little smile playing at his lips. “Friend or lover? Now, about _that_ , baby…”

***

“So it’s all done, you switched it out?” Hazza shook his head once more, peering out through the light rain and flipping on his wipers. “I still can’t believe you did this. Or that I did _this!_ Driving you about like an accomplice _.”_

“You are an accomplice now, darlin’ Joey, but it’s all done,” John assured him. He’d opened the window and begun throwing handfuls of sugar cubes out into the wet.

“Hey, it’s getting’ in,” George complained as Lennon emptied his pockets of the sticky stuff. “And what, is that _all of it_ you’re throwin’ out?”

“Well, yeah, ‘tis perfect aye? The rain’ll dissolve it all. No trace of anything.”

“You could have just given me the cube, you know." George, ever the frugal Northernman, sounded put out. "I’d have used it.”

“I’m not going to pick through them in the bleedin’ night, tryin’ to figure out which one it is, then, am I,” John bickered.

“Well, why didn’t you just put them in the box, instead of using your pockets, you know? You’ll have ants in your pants. Or your jacket, now.”

“What box,” Lennon had frowned.

“Jesus,” Hazza was seriously done with this adventure. “Honest to God, I don’t know how Paul puts up with you, but he’s a fucking saint for it, after all. The _box_ , John. You know… that you brought up with you. You did replace the cubes, right?”

“Of course I did, ass.”

“Then… where’s the box, hmm? Should have thought you’d just use it to swap out the old for new…” George was about to go into full rewind/replay, a mode all of the boys knew all too well.

“Ah shit,” John Lennon groaned as he suddenly realized what he'd done. Evidence at the scene. “Oh, Christ. We have to go back.”

“Oh hell, no, we are not!”

“Geo, I’ve left the bleedin’ box right out there on the kitchen table! I've got to go get it out of there.”

“So what? Paul’ll just think he filled the bowl and left it out.”

John glared at him. “Who are we talkin’ about, now, Geo?”

“Fucking Paul!" Georgie spat.

“Yes, Paul. And do you actually believe the words that just came out of your own mouth? That he’ll just think he'd filled his already-full sugar bowl, and then left the box on the table, not in the rubbish bin? We've got to go back!”

They'd driven on for another mile in silence before Hazza spoke again, letting out a great sigh. “Ah, shit. I guess we’re fucking turning around, then.”

“Aye. Turn it around. I’ll run in and get the box.”

“The _fucking_ box,” Geo corrected, deciding it was good to have something to blame beyond John, no matter how stupid.

“Yes! The fucking, goddamn, misbegotten, devil-take-it box," Lennon agreed. "I just hope they're still at dinner or havin' a nightcap or something. _Fucking box."_

***

Jane Asher was languid against Paul McCartney’s chest, settled in an afterglow so deep, she seemed – if not in a coma – then, in a heavy-eyed trance.

 _So,_ she guessed, _‘lover’ it is… I’m more than happy to let him keep his little friend in France, if this is what it does to him. Animal. Brute. I'm flattened._

 _Bliss_. Paul was stroking Jane’s body, skimming along her curves with just the very tips of his fingers. He felt nearly delirious with gratitude for the way the evening had turned out – so much better than he’d ever dared to hope. And now he was offering up silent thanks -- to God, because why not? Thanks to the big cop, John Dawson, too, for reliving so much horror before something beautiful happened -- something that could finally bring closure to the man's decades-long aches. _Thanks to whomever had slipped that poor copper a bit of acid, too_ , he thought irreverently, _because that asshole has unwittingly helped bring about a kind of healing to both of us, yeah? And thanks to Jane, too,_ for giving him a chance to discover what he still could do – still wanted to do – in his bed, with his body. So to speak. 

_I’ll have to talk about all of this with[that damned crazy priest,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/65157673) Sean Flynn sometime_, he thought. _He’s just mad enough to be able to explain to me how an indisputably bad thing, like slipping LSD on someone without their permission, could somehow -- in that great, mysterious way of things -- become the catalyst for something so indisputably good_. Paul amended the thought: _At least, indisputably good, for me._ He gazed down at Jane, still seemingly immobile and unable to speak after the rip-roaring session they’d just enjoyed, and smiled to himself. _And yeah, indisputably good for Janey, too_. _Thank God, thank God_ , he breathed, resting one hand on Jane’s breast. _It’s not all of me – it may never be all of me. But it’s enough of me…_

When Paul had asked Jane to come home with him, he'd given her a brash, smoky look that he knew could always hook her. She'd bitten her lip and then chosen her words carefully. “On Christmas Eve,” she started. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but I did.” She’d raised those startlingly blue eyes up at him, not disguising the hurt she still felt. “I don’t want to scare you again, Paul. I don’t think I can bear it if—if [I want more and you pull away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/58936411).” She gave a helpless shrug and smiled. “A girl can only take so much of that before she starts doubting herself.”

“Come on, come home with me, love,” Paul had pled, taking her hand. “It’s going to be different, now…”

“How,” she had asked. A niggling suspicion she had tamped down as they’d discussed Michelle began to rise within her once more. _Something happened in France,_ she thought _. With that girl, Sophie, such an old-fashioned name_.

The feeling was in full-force now, a pull of jealousy that Jane had thought she’d grown past, with this boy. _Paul is lighter, now, so much more himself. How could that happen overnight?_ What was left of her more reasonable instincts told her to drop the idea. _What if he’ did shag her, so what? He’s never been faithful…he’s told you they mean nothing._

 _Except he knows this girl,"_ the answering thought came. _"He's had a baby with her, and so she is far from meaningless._ _And he hasn’t been able… hasn’t been wanting to shag me since the ra-- since he was hurt._

Again, that untruthfully benign word: _hurt_. It was so useless, such a dishonest euphemism in the face of reality. But she couldn’t let the other word slip out, not from her mouth or from her mind. 

And besides, Jane believed Paul _had_ been faithful to her lately. The thrills and newness of world-wide fame and parties -- and new women every night -- had ceased to seem like an endless banquet and had become merely dull for the band. She'd heard John say as much at a party one night, when he'd been drinking -- that the whole ride, all the expectations, were beginning to bring more pressure than pleasure. "Even with the birds. How many can you fuck before it all just feels a bit pathetic -- like you're just a performing monkey she can tell her friends about later." When he’d returned from Austria, where they’d shot the snow scenes for _Help!_ Paul seemed like he had reached that point, too. He seemed different to Jane. A little clingier, a little less sure of himself and more willing to lean on her. He’d called her every night while on tour -- something he’d not done since the beginning of their relationship. One early morning he'd even called Jane to complain that he couldn’t sleep for missing her, only to fall asleep on the phone five minutes into the call, as Jane had prattled on about nothing important. She’d hung on to the line, listening to his deep, steady breathing for nearly ten minutes, making sure he was alright, before hanging up.

She would be devastated, Jane realized, now, if some silly girl in a French vineyard intruded on that -- on her first experience of Paul as her own, and only _hers._ The endlessly randy Bull of Liverpool, finally spent.

 _Faithful_. It was never a word she ever thought would apply to Paul. At least not with her. But she believed that in 1965, at some point, it had finally happened. 

And of course, what had been 'natural' and permissible for Beatle Paul would never be tolerated in Jane. The resentful thought lay mostly buried but it was nevertheless true. Paul could be such a gentleman, and yet when it came to the idea of Jane enjoying anything like his freedom – well, she wasn’t interested in sleeping around, of course. _Still_ though, if she simply talked too long with one fellow or indulged in a bit of innocent flirtation with another while Paul was around, he’d take her arm and bee-line her away, into a corner or even a closet, and growl at her that she was his and no one else’s, and sometimes that would come with a hard kiss and a tight squeeze to put the exclamation point to it.

She hated that, hated how possessive he could be, hated it when the Neanderthal Northernman he kept so well-hidden would come out and he’d claim her as his possession, as though she could be owned. They never fought about anything else, truth be told. Only this deep possessiveness.

She hated it, yes. But there was a part of her that kind of loved it too -- that combination of Nice Boy and hair-dragging Neanderthal -- and she had to admit it to herself, because were it not true she’d have given up on the relationship long ago. But Jane’s family was a bit detached, a bit chilly even by British standards. They would play games together after dinner, sometimes, but so much of the life in Wimpole street was lived in a deep freeze. It was a passionless household all about drilling, learning, getting ahead. Her mother was a humorless woman, serious and cold, cold, cold, and her father, while a bit looser, was busy and rarely around. She and her siblings were more or less left to themselves.

On the other hand, Paul's brusque Neanderthal could be exciting sometimes -- a nice change from British upper class predictability. Whatever else Paul was, he was passionate, and about everything. He was lively and warm, and when you had his attention, you had _all_ of his attention. He’d listen to Jane, those honey-brown eyes, sparkling with light and roving all over her as though he’d never seen anyone more beautiful -- moving from her hair, to her lips to her body -- and she’d feel like she was before a fireplace, toasty and safe and sexy -- a bit hungered-after but with enough respect to make it tolerable. _What girl doesn’t want to feel all that?_

She wanted to feel it again, she’d realized, and now he had that look about him, peering at her through the haze of his cigarette, looking like a panther ready to pounce. He blinked at Jane and gave her one of those slow, knowing smiles.

 _Shit_.

She’d gone home with him, after all.

“Paul,” she murmured now. “That was—”

“Yes, baby,” he kissed her hair. “It _was…_ ”

“But you didn’t…” Jane could curse like a sailor when she wanted to, but in intimate settings sometimes the close words were hard to say, for all the blushing.

“I’m fine as I am, love. Truly.” He kissed her temple. “I’m perfectly content right now.”

After a moment Jane lifted up on one elbow to meet his eyes. “But… I have to know… why, suddenly? _How?”_

“Don’t ask, lovie,” he lit two cigarettes, placing one between her lips. “It’s just a gift.”

“A gift?” She blew a plume and gave him an arched look.

“Aye. Look," he met her gaze with his own serious expression. "Something happened last night, and no, I won’t tell you what, because it's someone else's business, not mine. But… I guess you could say something _clicked_ in me. Something saved me.”

“Oh, really? And does this click have a name?”

Paul chuckled, a little delighted to see his Janey looking jealous. “Yes, [its name is John Dawson](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/71931102), and no,” he sounded downright sassy, “don’t even think about going there. Don’t ask, because I won’t tell.” His look and tone grew serious once more. “Just trust me, love, when I say that something suddenly made sense to me, yeah? And it loosed me a little, freed me up a little.”

“A _little_ ,” Jane laughed. “If that’s what a little loosening up does to you, I’m not sure I’ll survive you when you’re well-and-fully yourself, again.”

He’d smiled at her, one of those silent, toothless grins that conveyed a bittersweet note. “Well,” he said softly. “Whether that day comes or not…” he reached around her, putting a hand playfully between her legs and making her jump and scream in laughter, “I’m glad I had _you_ coming, tonight! And coming and coming and coming…”

It hadn’t all started out as perfectly as Paul would have liked, though. When the lift had opened on his floor, there stood a frazzled-seeming John Lennon, who'd looked up from stuffing something into his jacket and froze. At the sight of Paul and Jane he blanched and then took refuge in noise and nonsense. “Oh, Paulie! ‘Lo Jane. Nice dinner, had you?” He was being too effusive, he knew, too obviously up to something. _Paul knows you too well not to notice it, Lenny. Pull yourself together._

“John,” Paul had stepped out and now was looking over his partner with a puzzled frown. “Whatcha doin’ here? And at this hour?”

“ _Harrum,_ ” Lennon immediately pulled a farcical Sargeant-Major voice, harrumphing about and making walrus noises. “Well, what we talked about this morning,” he huffed and gruffed. “The thing I’d borrowed, you know. _Harrum_ , wanted to return it, o’viously, afore Cyn asked about it.”

Paul’s frown grew while Jane moved past the two of them. She had never found anything remotely charming about John's sense of humor, and hated how Paul indulged it. Never more so than at this moment. John tossed his head in the direction of the waiting lift boy who was standing stock-still and pretending not to look, nor listen. “ _Harrumph_ ,” he coughed and then pretended a sneeze. “ _Hatch-ooskivvies_ ” he muttered from behind a handkerchief.

“You’re a lunatic,” Paul laughed fondly, pushing him into the lift. He looked up at the boy with a smile. “He’s going home, now, lad, take him down. Goodnight, Johnny!”

“ _Harrum, Harrumph_ ,” Lennon managed for the benefit of the amused boy, coughing and sneezing and making a complete idiot of himself through eleven floors.

“Why do you love him,” Jane had asked as Paul took her coat.

“Why do you love me,” he answered, deflecting before changing the subject. “Shall I make tea?”

“Funny,” Jane answered. “Rather got the impression you wanted to make _me…”_

"Mmmm," he pretended to consider. "Make you moan? Make you shiver? Would you like to shiver, Janey, all under my hands?"

He knew it wouldn't be everything. He wasn’t ready for everything – wasn’t near ready, he thought -- but Paul began kissing Jane as he led her straight to the bedroom, sitting her on the edge of the bed, and then taking a knee before her. “Listen, baby,” he said, kissing her again, and slipping his fingers down along the buttons of her blouse, “I want to make you happy.”

“I want to make you happy, too, Paul--”

“Yes, but right now, love, the best way to make me happy is to just… let me make you happy,” he explained.

“I don’t know what you mean…”

“Well,” he kissed her again and drew the back of his fingers along her brow. “Shall I show you, then?” He began to undress her -- the way he always had -- the slow, careful way he knew she loved to be exposed and played with, bit by naughty bit. “Let me play you, Jane, love…”

And he had – he’d had played her like an instrument, as though she was his beloved curvaceous Hofner bass, and he knew her every spot, every fret so well that he never had to look down, although look he did. All of Paul’s senses were engaged as he played on Jane -- touch, taste, sight, smell, even his hearing – until she was humming and undulating beneath him and making the most beautiful racket. “Be as loud as you want, lovie,” he’d urged her on. “I want you to give me a whole Concert of Jane, tonight, yeah? All your pretty growls and high notes. And then an encore!”

But he hadn’t permitted her to touch him. That seemed to be the limit – as far as he could go. He could use his hands on Jane, and his mouth, and he did until she was nearly out of her mind, but Paul quickly discovered that he still could not tolerate being touched. Jane would reach for him, wanting to touch and stroke at his nipples, where he was so sensitive, but he’d grabbed her hands and bring them above her head, pinning them there – not objecting in words, but by his quelling look and reach. She understood: _not there, not yet, but let me do this…_ He'd jumped each time she’d tried to touch his cock, which was hard and straining with need but no, he couldn't bear the touch. Yet Paul had managed not to fall apart over it. Instead, he quickly rebounded, simply moving Jane's hand someplace else each time she tried, lastly to her own breast. “Touch yourself for me there, Sweetheart. Tease yourself a little. Keep it all prickly and warm until I can get back there with my mouth, yeah? I won’t be long…there’s a good girl," he praised when she did as he asked.

But then he had ducked away from her breasts – his favorite playthings – for a long time. He’d visited her feet, and then her calves and knees, where he'd had to gnaw for a little while -- until she'd begged him to stop -- because, yeah, he was still a biter, but she was ticklish, there. He'd moved higher, then, sucking and nibbling his way up her thighs until he’d reached her already-drenched, lusciously pink folds (the reason he always sent her pink roses), and slipped his fingers inside, just teasing her sensitive nub. “ _Jesus_ , Paul,” Jane had groaned.

“Just _Paul_ ,” he whispered up, adding a third finger and massaging inside her pussy as his tongue got busy too, until a groan rose from Jane that sounded like it came from her very core. She reached down, grabbing at his wrist, shoving him further, wanting him to go deeper.

“Ohh,” he had groaned, himself. “You are so greedy, my little ginger puss.” He allowed her to keep pulling at his wrist as he moved up her body and reveled in the look of her. “So pretty for me, falling apart like this while I pet you.” He splayed his fingers just a little bit, permitting his pinky to tease at the tight, pucker of her anus as she pulled and thrusted, and that little move had her groaning in surprised pleasure, and then cursing.

“Oh, stop playing, you teasing bastard,” she panted, falling into a babble of need. “It's so good...I’m so close…please… _you’re so mean, Paulie!_ ”

“I know, baby.” He kissed her tummy, and then moved up to graze her lips, forcing her to let go of his hand. When she did, he broke the kiss and gave her a wicked look, so intentionally filthy and sexy that Jane felt her toes curl. “Now, Janey, you’re going to come for me, yeah? Right onto my hand, I want you to come…” And with that he latched his mouth on to her breast and suckled hard and deep, while curling his fingers inside her, hitting that spot, _that one spot_ , over and over, and Jane was utterly lost to everything but his hands, his mouth, his deep growl. She cried out, pulling his hair as her hips lifted from the bed, chasing his fingers, chasing the incredible feeling ripping through her like lightning, wishing she could devour Paul’s hand, then his cock, then his entire person, until every inch of him was trapped within her convulsing walls.

She’d screamed for him. Hell, she’d practically meow’d for him, and Paul had loved it. No, it wasn’t everything. But it was real, and it was good. And it was enough for him.

Later, after Jane had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, Paul had slipped into the bathroom and – as with the previous night – had touched the erection that had never fully abated, watching himself respond with an almost detached, clinical air, stroking, squeezing, flicking his wrist along his length, and then observing his release, unable to look away as he pulsed through his orgasm, his hand riding it out.

It wasn’t everything, no. He didn't know if there would ever be 'everything' again, for him. But it was something. He was functional. And he’d made Jane sound like a cat as she’d come and come, practically on command. That had to be a good thing, yeah?

“There you are, Macca,” he said to his reflection in the mirror. His smile was real. He was beginning to recognize himself again, and he was loving the feeling. After having experienced such a shattering, the pieces were coming back together, bit-by-bit. The music had come back in France, and now... not everything. But enough.

It wasn’t until he had returned to bed, cuddling into Jane and drifting into sleep that a new thought intruded. _How weird to find Johnny here so late, and so off_ , he was frowning, even as he drifted off. _He can be so strange, sometimes…_


	2. Jane in Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's morning. Paul is sleeping. Jane is counting all the bites and bruises he's left upon her from the night before and remembering the night Paul revealed one of his (numerous) surprising and original kinks. Basically this is a sex chapter that moves the story along only the tiniest bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually going to be the start of the new tensions, but then I got this idea in my head -- Jane in Chains -- and realized I wanted to write it, so... next chapter will put us back on to Paul's Perilous Path and all the tension that leads to suffering will begin. For now, here is a little background on how Paul and Jane _used to play._

She caught herself smiling while she studied her body as best she could in the half-length mirror on Paul’s closet door. _Oh, dear, so many love bites_.

They’d talked about this, many times. A respectable girl whose career involved wardrobe fittings couldn’t afford to be marked up the way Paul McCartney could mark a girl up – as though he was a cartographer and she was his legend: _here be orgasms! And dragons!_ \-- the purple bruises sucked just below the collarbone, inside the elbow, on her inner thighs, her lower back, even her backside, which sometimes would suggest an imprint of a hand, too, if that’s how things had played out of an evening. But most tellingly, the _bites_ \-- the full-mouthed bites Paul would leave at the very curve of her waist.

He had a thing for small-waisted girls; she knew that, now, and Jane Asher’s tiny waist was, for Paul, a feasting opportunity. He loved to linger there, with his hands – lots of caresses, and strokes, always – and his lips. And sometimes, when he was not fully in control, he’d just wrap his entire mouth around that narrow, slender curve, leaving an imprint of his small mouth palate on both front and back.

They’d talked about it more than once. “Paul, darling, I can’t have this. You’ve promised to stop biting me so much. I look like a harlot who had ten men last night…”

He would always duck his head and give her the apologetic eyes, even though Jane suspected he was pretty proud of himself. “I’m sorry, love, got carried away.” Then he would reach for her, “…but the important thing is, do you _feel_ like you had ten men last night?”

 _At least it’s not summertime and I’m not swimming,_ she thought now. _At least I am not being fitted for wardrobe at the moment_. She decided she really couldn’t complain. It had been a long time, perhaps a year, since he’d gone whole-hog on her with his mouth, but he’d been very, naughty, very bite-y the previous evening, and she couldn’t fault it. If getting Paul back to normal meant suffering a few mouth-maulings for a while, well… _he certainly made it worthwhile last night. Bad, bitey boy_.

She looked over at the bed, where he was still sleeping like the dead, curled in on himself and very fetchingly in need of a shave. If she had more time – if she’d not overslept thanks to spending half the night begging him to let her finish – she would wake him up and go another round. But she was running late, and so she finally hooked her bra, and started to dress.

The waist thing. It had always been there, as had the biting, but there was a time when Paul had introduced a different sort of bite to her. It had happened early on in their lovemaking, perhaps a few months after he’d first had her – that goose-bump raising, instructive afternoon. He’d rested himself against the headboard and had set Jane atop his lap until she was straddling his long thighs and had smiled up at her, hands running up and down her waist, stroking her softly as she rode him. She’d smiled back, moving slowly, controlling just how much of herself she would give to him, and he was perfectly willing to let her take her time. And then, just as she made to get serious about finishing, he’d stayed her hips, holding her against him with both hands until she’d stopped moving.

“What,” she’d frowned. “Paul, I need to move.”

“No, love, you need to _stay_. Just let yourself be still for a minute.”

“Why?” Her frustration could not be in doubt.

“Just…” He tightened his grip on her, moving from her waist down to the spurs of her hips. “ _Feel_ it, alright? Can you feel it, inside you? Feel your muscles having at my cock like a thousand little tongues licking and sucking at me?” He groaned, closing his eyes. “Just… oh, baby, can you feel _that?”_

She could. With her hips immobilized, she could feel her own body trying to finish the job, her vaginal muscles tugging and yes, sucking, at Paul, trying to bring him inward and further inward. A gasped escaped her and she bit her lip and felt herself tighten around him. “Oh, God…” Another gasp, this one in unison with her lover, who was suddenly having troubling keeping his own hips still.

“Yeah…”

“Paul, I want to move.”

“In a minute, love,” he groaned out. “Just… wait.” With that, he reached one hand under his pillow and showed her a long jewelry case.

“What’s this, then?” With one of his hands off her hips, she couldn’t help rocking a little as she asked.

“Open it.”

“But I need to move…”

“Oh, baby, you will but open it first, yeah?”

She was skeptical. Jane had never liked drugs and she wondered if Paul was trying to get her to try one of those sex drugs she’d heard about, amyl nitrate, was it? Something smelly that was supposed to intensify an orgasm but sounded unromantic and ugly to her.

But no, when she opened the box, she saw only two longish chains, one gold and the other silver, both very pretty and smooth. She gave him a quizzical look.

“Darling, they’re lovely, but…”

“Let’s see ‘em on you,” Paul smiled up at her. “I want to see you come with them.”

The sound Jane made sounded like a scoff held back by shear force of will. “No, Paul, not right now, you’re making me lose it. This is too distracting.”

He held out the one hand, the other still stroking and caressing her hip before adding a sharp, light smack. “Give ‘em to me, girl. Both chains.”

Feeling truly puzzled, now, she put them in his hand sounding like an annoyed kitten. “You’re ruining it.”

“Hmmm, we’ll see.” Before Jane knew what was happening, Paul had both chains drawn ‘round he waist, where he quickly fastened them.

“What…” her eyes grew wide. “What are you doing, love?”

Macca smiled up at her, one index finger slipping under the silver band, the other slipping under the gold, and then he twisted both, tugging her forward. “Go on, now, baby. Be my little harem girl. Follow where you’re pulled.” With that he tugged at her until she was lying fully upon his chest, her nipples grazing his skin. “Now, kiss me,” he purred.

“You are so--” she couldn’t finish the thought as he claimed her mouth, groaning into it as his fingers entangled themselves in her chains and began to command the movement of her hips. The jewelry bit into her, just a little, as though his mouth was still at her even while she was being fucked, her hips rolling against his upward thrusts, meeting them at any angle he wished. Jane groaned. “You are so bossy,” she murmured as he dragged her about, his thumbs now tugging her back as the chains pressed sharply into her tummy.

“Go on, my captive little princess, _go’wan…_ ” he ordered. “ _Down on it_.”

Down she went, until she was once more straddling him and moving like a wanton, following all the little tugs and pulls at her bejeweled waist and crying out as she went with it. She was riding him like a horse while feeling herself tugging him further and further inside her. _How?_ He was buried to the hilt, and yet her body was drawing him further, elongating him, somehow, and he was grasping at her, and panting and urging her on, hunching to take one breast into his mouth. As soon as he began to suckle her, it brought both of them over the edge. Jane screamed through her orgasm, nearly pulling Paul’s hair out of his head.

 _That had been a pretty incredible night_ , she remembered now.

At Paul’s request ( _demand?_ ) Jane had worn the chains about her waist, day and night, for nearly six months. He seemed to be working through some sort of pirate or sheik fantasies with her and she wasn’t minding it at all – she loved the energy and imagination he was bringing to their bed. But after one particularly lively session, though, when he’d taken her from behind and slipped one hand under the gold bands to tease her drenched pinkness, Paul had broken both chains to pieces and the games had ended.

Now fully dressed and finding herself all-too-aroused thanks to her memories, Jane thought she might surprise Paul next time they got together, by slipping one of her necklaces around her waist for him. _For Paul, my filthy, sheik. My bossy, rutting pirate._

Slipping into her shoes, she sat on the edge of the bed, and stroked Paul’s face, kissing his cheeks until his eyes fluttered open and he gave her a sleepy smile.

“Morning Janey,” he stretched out in sections. “How are you feeling, love?”

“A little knock-kneed, truth be told,” she chuckled, her hand skimming down his torso. A few months ago, she might have allowed her hand to explore about, going lower until she’d find his cock and give it a playful tug – and she really wanted to do that, now – but she rested her hand at his navel, noting that at some point during the night he’d gotten up and put on pajama bottoms. _So, no tugging_ , she thought sadly, _not even a little_. She couldn’t risk it, didn’t want to end what had been a beautiful night with her boyfriend suddenly jumping away from her hand and running screaming from the room.

“You’re all dressed,” Paul frowned.

“We overslept, love. I need to get home and showered. Doing a reading with my theater group this afternoon.”

“Oh…why didn’t you wake me,” he heaved himself up. “I’ll drive you.”

“No, Paul, I can take a taxi. You looked so peaceful sleeping there, I hated to bother you.”

“Don’t be silly,” he insisted, jumping out of bend and kissing her cheek. “Put up some tea while I dress, and I’ll take you home.”

 _So bossy. Yes, he might just like to find a chain on me next time_ , she thought to herself, even as she rolled her eyes at him and headed to the kitchen.

He’d managed to convince her to have not just tea but an egg and toast before he would let Jane go, and she had to admit, she liked his eggs. But she would not permit him to drive her home. “You look a wreck,” she smiled at him, “and we can’t have people seeing you with whiskers and your hair all on end. Walk me down to the lobby, yeah? Then come back up and take a nap. That will make me happy!”

“You’re twisting my arm,” he grinned as he buzzed down to the lobby and ordered a cab.

When she pulled her coat from the couch, she found the large envelope the concierge had handed to Paul on their way up, the previous night. “Aren’t you going to open this,” Jane asked him, waving it in his face. “It’s to _James Paul McCartney_ , you know, _big shot MBE_.”

“Toss it,” he took it from her hands and threw it emphatically toward the fireplace with a curl of his lip. “Burn it. They’re all over the place, those invites. I’m never going to another big shot MBE party again.”

“Oh,” Jane was embarrassed. “Is that what it is?”

“I figure.”

“Well then, you’re quite right, darling.” She moved closer to him, stroking his cheek. “No more of that.”

Paul pulled her into a full hug, burying his face into her neck, just holding her as he sighed hugely. After a moment, he murmured against her, “Aye, no more of that. No more.”

Jane could smell herself on him, combined with tobacco and cologne and his own heavy musk. Once more she wished she had awoken earlier.

“Come on, love, walk me to the lift…”

“I’ll see you to the taxi,” he insisted, letting her know the matter was settled.

_Bossy, bossy boy._


	3. One Flight Rock and Tumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul says goodbye to Jane and hello to a new neighbor. Then he falls apart on the staircase.  
>  **GRAPHIC ASSAULT IMAGES. PLEASE NOTE *********TRIGGER WARNING***********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter*, not even 2,000 words, but I told you bad times were coming. They're here. 
> 
> *(I think after that long first chapter, we'll likely have a lot of shorter chapters in this book).

He didn’t walk Jane all the way out to the curb to collect her cab. Given the (he believed slight) possibility that there might in fact be a paparazzo outside of his building, Paul decided he was too scruffy, unshowered and unshaved to risk a photograph. Yes, John or George might tease him that he was too vain, but Brian would be most displeased if “the cute Beatle” was seen looking less than prime, and Paul didn’t want to deal with that – or to annoy Brian, really, who had been very kind to him since his troubles had all begun.

But he did take her to the door, kissing her sweetly – and twice – before sending Jane on her way. He watched her walk away wishing it was summer, so he could have a better view of her ass, and then smiled to himself. _Yes. I am coming back. Slow steps, baby steps. I’m happy for what I’ve got. It’s more than I ever thought I’d have of myself, even a month ago._

He stopped by the concierge – no messages, today, no mail – and then hoofed it to the lift, calling out for it to wait up.

“Hello, good morning again, sir,” the lift boy greeted him.

“Is it still morning, then? I thought I’d wasted the day at least until noon,” Paul smiled at him, nodding at the lift’s other occupant, an older looking man wearing a fedora and tortoise-rimmed spectacles. The fellow had two large suitcases and a suit bag with him, and a rather unwieldly-looking box under one arm. “Back from traveling, are we,” he guessed.

“Just moving in, actually,” the man answered as the lift door closed.

“Oh,” Paul nodded again. “I’m a new tenant, too. Just subletting at the mo’ but I may find a spot here when that’s up. It’s a good building.”

“Ah, I too am a sublet. Just here on business, you know. Extended business, but temporary.” The man’s voice was soft – the whole look of him was soft, to Paul’s way of thinking, as though he was a shy sort – and now he could detect a Scot’s brough.

“Edinburgh?” he guessed.

“Dundee.”

“Ah, I’m familiar with Dundee. Played there, once a few years back.”

The man turned his way, seeming to study him for a moment, before offering a thin smile. He began to maneuver the box and grab his bags as his floor approached. 

“Like a hand with all that?” Paul offered, still riding on his good mood.

“Why, that’s very kind,” the man sounded surprised. He gave Paul a wider grin. “I would be very glad for it.”

“Give it here,” Paul took the box and suit bag as the lift reached the tenth floor and they stepped out together.

“Shall I wait, sir,” the boy wondered, noting the ringing call bell with a worried look. 

“It’s just one flight up for me, son” Macca called back, tossing his head in the direction of the stairway. “I’ll manage!”

He stood behind the stranger, watching as the fellow fished his keys from a stylish, new-looking trench coat, and fussed with the lock. As he pushed the door open, he turned to Paul. “Thank you very much, young man,” he started.

“No, go on, then, I’ll bring ‘em in for you.”

Another smile, a bit warmer, this time. “Very kind.”

“S’nothin’," Paul shrugged. "You’ve caught me on a good day.”

“Indeed, it seems I have.” He snapped the light switch and then stepped aside, permitting Macca to enter first.

“Oh!” Paul stopped to appreciate the tastefully decorated flat. “Very nice! Where shall I bring it?”

“Just here if you will,” the man said, watching as Paul hung the suit bag on a hook, and bent to place the box gently on the floor. “Very fine.” He extended his hand to the younger man. “Thank you, Mister--”

“McCartney,” Macca took it. “Call me Paul, please.”

“Ah.” They shook hands, the older man’s eyebrows raised. “Terrence – Terry if you will. I had wondered if you were he, but didn’t like to ask. Imagine that, a Beatle in the building! My family will think I’m brilliant!”

“Just above you, actually. But I’m very quiet, I promise. I hope a little piano music won’t disturb you, now and now?”

“No, of course not. I’m quite used to music being played in the home, so it will be lovely.” He took off hat, running his hands through hair gone heavily grey. “Can I offer you a bit of tea…” he started, then blushed. “Well, actually, I’ve no idea whether there is any tea,” he apologized. “I must go to market.”

Paul gave a good-natured laugh, but was keen to leave. “Thank you anyway, but I’m off. Busy day ahead. Nice to meet you, Terrence -- er, Terry.”

“Very nice to meet you as well, Mister – _Paul,"_ he emphasized. And thank you, once more.”

With a wink, Paul headed to the stairwell, his new neighbor watching until he’d disappeared behind the door.

 _Now, what have I to do today,_ Paul wondered as he began to climb. _I think there’s something with John? George? Don’t we have a meeting or summat_? “What day _is_ it,” he asked himself aloud. When they weren’t touring or recording the days could all seemed to run together, and he was often unsure. _Been so busy since Christmas, I'm all discombobulated, ain't I?_

He could hear his heels echoing on the steps, the sound traveling throughout the stairwell as he reached the first turn. He was thinking how unusual it was to use the stairs alone – to have done anything alone, actually, beyond flying to France, he thought. But usually it was the four of them, plus Neil and Mal, and Brian, running down them, and double-time, as they tried to avoid the fans. Again, touring was so different from normal life. _The last time I used the stairs was…_

And suddenly the memory came. The last time he’d used such stairs he’d been too drugged to manage them; was being pulled along – nearly carried – as his legs kept missing steps, or his feet would trip upon them. Hands on him, so many hands and arms. Two hands on his ass, cupping them as he was trying to figure out what was happening. _His lovely, meaty arse!_ He heard the words, the strange cacophony of jovial agreement, and panting as the multi-armed monster that had caught him up gained level after level and his legs grew ever weaker.

His head was spinning. The whole staircase seemed to be whirling about him, and Paul grasped the railing, white-knuckling it until he could lower himself onto the landing. _No. No, don’t fall apart here, Paul. Don’t fall apart or you’ll break your neck._

Still clinging to the rail, he closed his eyes against the sickening sense of the world rotating around him, and much too quickly. _The staircase_. It was before him now, stark and clear in his recollection. _So many steps_. So many foot sounds all around him, resounding off the walls, echoing in the depths of the place. Someone panting a bit, as though unused to the strain of climbing. _Was that me?_ Two hands pushing from behind, and copping a feel in the process. He could feel it now as the memories came surging. A hard squeeze, the fingers pressing between his cheeks, as though seeking out his hole through the fabric. “Stop it…” He’d said the words, he was sure of it. “Stop…where are we? John? _Johnny?_ ”

*************

A hand went over his mouth. “Calling out for your playmate, pet? No Johnny here tonight.”

“Unless you mean Johnny Rocket, and we’ve got lots of them, now.” came another voice, and then more chuckles. A guffaw. A hand coming from the side, reaching between his legs and rubbing, then squeezing. “Ah, he’s as pretty as they come, isn’t he? Gonna be a delight, this one.”

He was trying to bite the hand, but somehow his body wasn’t working as it should, and his mouth couldn’t open wide enough. He could barely breathe.

The door swinging open. A pause – someone must have looked around to be sure all was clear – and then he was being pulled, half-dragged, a few steps along and through another door.

And then it began. Hands all over him, a tongue thrust into his mouth. He tried to turn his head away, to close his mouth against the assault but a firm hand squeezed his mouth, holding it open. His tuxedo jacket was being pulled from him, and then he felt hands at his waist, roughly drawing him back, against someone’s hardness. “Stop,” he’d tried as the tongue’s filthy owner pulled back. “Let me go--let go!”

“Oh, we're going to let go all over you, pretty boy. But you’re going nowhere,” a deep voice, trembling in breathy excitement, “except down on your knees, lover.”

“Christ… Christ…” Paul could hear himself gulping the air, trying to keep from throwing up, from passing out. _The stairwell_. That had brought these scenes up. _Get off the fucking stairs…_

His head was aching. _How far? How far to my flat?_

Every time he opened his eyes, his dizziness took over, his stomach roiling. _Don’t look. Just keep climbing. On your knees…_

“Except down on your knees…” He heard it again, could make out the voice, the tone -- deep, posh, malevolent as hell. He could feel it chasing him, descending on him as he crawled, step by miserable step, up the staircase. He reached out. The door? Is that the door? Risking a glance, he saw it, the number “11” spinning all around him, a sickly crawl of sweat breaking out all over his body. _Yes. Eleven. Get me home. God, get me home. Mum…Mum, please get me home_. On his knees now, he gasped as he pulled himself up by the knob. He swayed as he managed to open the door, nearly falling back. _Get me there, just get me there. Inside. Inside_.

“I can’t wait to be inside this beauty,”

 _No… no… help_. He staggered across the slanting hall, clinging to the walls until he reached his flat. He felt nearly mad with the need to escape, to find the safe place, to find his safety. _Keys…keys…_ he was panting now, one wildly trembling hand patting his shirt, then his trousers before finding and pulling out the keys. _Can’t see. I’m blind, I’m gonna puke… oh, Mum, help me!_ He could feel, rather than see the key slip into the tumbler. The knob turned and he stepped through, heavily, pushing the door closed and then collapsing against it, heaving breath, chilled to the bone from the soak of sweat. _The deadbolt. Don’t forget the deadbolt_. With a massive effort, he managed to turn the lock, and then he stayed there, shivering with the effort, his forearms bearing his weight as he huffed and swallowed, doing anything to keep from vomiting all over the door, or himself. _Don't let them get me. Don't let them get me. Mum. Oh, Mum._

“Kiss me… kiss your daddy, boy…so pretty…”

_No… no… God help me, no…_

He could feel his mouth forced open again, the hands grabbing at him. He could hear the pop of buttons as his shirt was torn open and then the mouth latching on, his own squeal of pain as teeth bit down, roughly. The sound of a man growling -- actually growling -- as his entire areola was snagged and then shaken and gnawed at, as though he were a gamecock, being shredded in the mouth of a rabid wolf. The brush of a mustache. Behind him, someone was pulling at his hips, fingers grabbing hard against his bones, rutting against him. Another pair of hands was at his fly, tugging at the zipper.  
  
He couldn't stand it. He couldn’t stand. His legs were giving out from under him.

In his flat, Paul collapsed, falling on to his back.

He was gone. Jamie was gone, and with no one around to call him back.


	4. Deadbolted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his encounter with the terribly memory of how and where his assault had begun, Paul finds himself where he can't remember going, and spends the day in the grips of a mild disorientation that has him wondering what is real, and what is not -- had he imagined the new neighbor? The sexy and satisfying night with Jane? After spending a day at the piano, he finally settles down to look at the mail. And his world falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Pedal to the metal angst. It doesn't really settle down much, after this.

The phone was jangling, ringing so near his head that it shocked him into wakefulness, as though he’d been sleeping under a church bell that had suddenly been pulled into a raucous peal. _Stop it, stop that noise, my head…_

He wasn’t even sure where he was for a moment, but eventually, as his hand grabbed about blindly to find the phone and make it stop, Paul realized he was sprawled out upon the couch, in the sitting room of his own flat, with Theodore settled in the crook of his arm. Groaning as his hand finally landed on the receiver, he gulped drily before giving an unintelligible greeting.

“Paulie?” A nasally voice came over the phone.

“Gah…whozis?”

“Really?” He heard the familiar laugh. “It’s Ritchie, isn’t it? Where are you, Paulie, darlin’?”

“Hmmph?” Macca still felt dull and out of it. “Where am I?”

“Well, I’m guessin’ you’re home, since you’ve answered the phone. Were you sleeping?”

Paul shook his head, struggling to bring it to rights as he sat up, still clutching Theodore to his chest. “I was,” he answered. “I guess I was.” He looked around the room, eyebrows up, wondering how he’d ended up on the couch. “Must have been a dream,” he added, more to himself.

“Well, pull yourself together, mate, you’re missing me luncheon ain’t you?””

“Wha—What is? I don’t understand.”

“The luncheon, you know. The three B’s? “Burgers, Beers and Babies for Paul to Play With?”

Macca gulped again. “M’sorry, Ritch. I had no idea.”

“Aw, that figures. Left a message for you with the concierge while you were busy doin’ what-all you’ve been up to. Everyone’s here. Surprised John and Cynthia didn’t mention it to you.”

“Ummm…” He apologized again. “Sorry, Ritch, I’ve not really looked at my messages.”

“You ‘haven’t looked at your messages’,” Ringo teased. “Who _are_ you? Is this Paul McCartney I’m speaking to?”

“I hardly know,” Paul admitted. “A bit fucked up just now. P’raps I’ve overslept.”

There was a pause at the other end, then a note of concern, “Are you alright, Paulie? Feelin’ poorly, are you?”

“Yeah! I mean, no, no! I’m fine.” Macca tried to put some energy into his response. “Give me an hour, Ritch – time to shower and all, and I’ll be there. Unless… would that be too late? Don’t want to upset Maureen.”

“Mo adores you,” Ringo’s voice had gone gentle. “Take your time, love.”

His legs still felt a bit rubbery when he stood, but as Paul looked about the room, he decided he must have had a bad dream. It had seemed so real – the staircase, the memories. _How’d I get to the couch_ , he wondered. _Last memory was over there, wasn’t it?_ He squinted at the door, noting that the deadlock was not in place.

“I’m losin’ it, Theodore,” he murmured to the bear as he staggered over to the door and threw the lock. “Would’ve sworn before a magistrate that I’d locked up tight.”

Maybe he was just logy – maybe he’d just gone too hard and too long, and too soon, with Jane he mused as he washed up. _Last night was so good, but maybe I… did too much? Jiggled when I should have joggled and shook something lose in my head?_

He’d be happy to back off a bit if that was the case, because he felt all undone at the moment. He frowned at his reflection as he shaved. Why did it feel like he had a blank spot, somewhere? When had he fallen asleep? _Did I ever actually walk Jane down to the lobby? Or meet that fella, what was it… Terrence? Old Scottish bloke with the bags? Hell,_ he thought as stared at himself, his eyes growing wider _. What if I dreamed the night with Jane? Couldn’t have, could I?_

Feeling a bit more himself after a shower, Paul found his robe and then searched about for the pile of mail and messages he’d collected his first night back while John Dawson had gone snacking at the open table. He frowned at the number of envelopes, so many of them large and marked “Special Delivery” to himself -- in such an insistent way -- and the flurry of messages all scrawled out on blue note pages: “Where are you? Why have you not called? Explanation required. – Mr. Jim McCartney.”

“Where are you? Please call, very worried. – Miss Asher” A couple of those, actually.

“Hear you’re coming back for New Year’s. Come here for lunch, next day. Drink Beer. Eat burgers, babies. Bring Jane if you like – Mr. Starr.”

He smiled in amusement at the last, wondering – like the good English teacher he might have been -- which concierge had used the comma rather than the period and made it sound like both burgers and babies would be on the menu.

He was nearly dressed when the doorbell rang, just slipping the new jumper Jane had given him for Christmas over his head. If the concierge had buzzed, he’d not heard it and – with that nasty dream still roiling about in his head – he peered closely through the peep hole before opening the door with a practiced smile. “Ah, Miss Tildy! Come in, dear. Rather forgot it was Sunday.”

“Good afternoon, sir, and Happy New Year, to you.”

“Happy New Year,” he’d murmured politely, not showing his annoyance at being surprised by her.

“I see you’re dressing,” the birdlike little woman was looking at his bare feet. “I’ll start in the kitchen then. Shall I make you a cuppa, before I begin?”

“That would actually be lovely, thank you.”

He expected the concierge had let her up because Miss Tildy – Brian’s regular housemaid – had become a regular visitor to Paul’s flat of a Sunday afternoon, generally needing less than two hours to clean and tidy up after Paul, who was not very messy. Nevertheless, he’d have a word with whoever was on desk, reminding them that no one was to be permitted up without his say-so.

_Well… Miss Tildy is here. Can’t head out until she’s gone, then, can I?_

He supposed he actually could – that it would be no difficult thing to ask the bustling little woman to lock up behind herself when she’d finished. But he wasn’t comfortable with that notion. What if she forgot? What if the lock wasn’t fully turned? The chances of either happening were slim-to-none, he knew, and yet as he contemplated the risk, he also found himself wrinkling his nose at the thought of putting on shoes and driving to Ritchie’s – a mere stone’s throw from John and Cyn’s place – and he suddenly felt weary. The noise and chatter and mindful exertion it took to be social, even with his mates, these people he loved, suddenly seemed like it would require a great deal more energy than he had in him.

Paul realized that he didn’t really want it. He had begun to feel the work and weight of the past busy week – Sophie and Michelle; his father and Mike; John Dawson and the weirdly real ghost of Ned; John Lennon and Cyn, and then the all-nighter with Jane. He just wanted some quite – had been hungry for it since leaving the vineyard, in truth. He looked with real longing at the piano, and slipped onto the bench. _I just want to play_ , Paul thought. _I want to play and smoke ciggies until the ashtray is overflowing, and drink tea that’s gone cold and then do a bit of weed, if John has left me any…_

He gave a silent, grateful nod to Miss Tildy when, a few minutes after he’d settled in at the keyboard, she’d brought his tea all prepared, quietly leaving it on a small table beside him before getting to her work.

He played the whole time the woman was there, paying no attention to her comings and goings as she dusted around him and fussed with the fireplace, and old newspapers and mail and such. His bare feet were pressed to the pedals as he sang out and held them down, because that was the sort of mood he was in, wanting nothing but his own music, his own voice. He wanted resonance, wanted to feel the vibrations in his body – up his legs from the pedals, through his chest, his heart, his lungs, from the soundboard and the frame. _Up to my head, down to my balls, all through me. I’ve missed this. I’ve needed this…_

Music throughout his body. It felt like life. After Miss Tildy finished with the bathrooms and tucked fresh sheets into his bed, she settled Theodore into a corner of the couch, smiled and got her coat, waving at him not to get up. She could see he was where he needed to be.

Paul nodded back. “Just lock the door behind you, lovie, if you will,” he called out above the chords he was pounding out. It was coming. The song was coming – his first piece since that terrible night. It was biting and sharp and bare, and even a little bit dark, because he felt acquainted with the dark, now, in a way he never had before.

He thought it might be his best piece ever.

_Ah, look at all the lonely people…_

What had he been thinking, the other night, after Neddy had finally stopped haunting the place and John Dawson had fallen asleep. Aye, _the mystery of it…_ that’s what it had been, that evening of fright and feeling -- a singular bubble within the great mystery: that there is horror, so much hurt, so much pain and injustice. _And yet, even so, somehow something good might find a way to break though, sometimes. And bring some light_.

Could he ever have been there for John Dawson as completely as he was if his own heart and soul hadn’t been touched by the sort of misery Dawson had lived with for so long? Could he have been “proxie for Neddy”– permitting all of that unthinkable contact that they both (for very different reasons) had actually needed – and recognizing the surprising light buried within it all, without first having made a passing acquaintance with the dark?

For that matter, he’d never have met Dawson if not for that same darkness. Nor the mad priest, Sean Flynn. Two men he now loved. Would Sophie ever have written to him with so bold an invitation, and the pictures that made him hunger to meet his daughter, if he’d not made headlines all over the world for being so near to death?

He didn’t understand it, and thought he never would, but instinctively Paul felt that it all somehow connected to that crowded evening sky he’d watched travel across his bedroom window his first night in France, and the idea that it moved and glowed and threw down stars no matter who was looking, no matter what was happening amid all the helpless or hopeless or hateful humans down below. His mother’s death; his father’s mistakes. Julia Lennon, rendered airborne by a drunk cop in a car, coming down on her head and killed instanter. Neddy viciously beaten and raped and left for dead. The sad, tough old prossies of Hamburg, whose dreams lay dead in dark, filthy alleys. His little Sophie, assaulted and almost taken on a dark and lonely road – getting away -- running, running through the vineyards by the light of an autumnal sky.

_Me… held down… all of it, all of it._

He cast his eyes toward the window, and the patch of heaven he could glean from it – no stars, no life. Too much light up from Belgravia to permit the show, or the lessons to be learned, there.

 _Does anyone ever really get over their hurts_ , he wondered. For real, and for good? He didn’t think so, didn’t see how it could be possible. _You don’t get over things. Maybe you just go on, time drains your wounds and love – if you’re lucky enough to find love -- softens your scars enough so you can keep on moving, and stretching_ , he thought, now. _Maybe the brutality of the world, and how it touches every one of us – brings all of us into a haze of suffering at some point – maybe that’s the only way we can learn what compassion means_.

The thought brought him back to the conversation he’d had with John, as he was packing to leave for France -- what was it he’d said to his partner when he’d realized how much his need for Michelle was also about serving John’s need to see a good father… _“What if this is how we save each other, finally? By doing what we can, and what we should, for the sake of all the blighters who can’t, or won’t? What if that’s what all of our suffering, and all of our reaching out is for…”_

“Ah, look at all the lonely people”, he sang out, now. “Where do they all belong?” _The world, the whole hurting world. And me… and me, too._

The phone was ringing again, insistently, finally breaking Paul out of his musically-induced trance. He cursed as he answered it, suddenly realizing what he’d forgotten to do. “You’re a one, aren’t you,” he lectured himself. He knew that – for all of the high-minded thoughts he’d been entertaining two minutes earlier – he’d been rude to his mates. “Ritch, love I’m so sorry,” he answered.

“ _Sorry, hell, are you alright?”_ It was Lennon, sounding like he was calling from the corner of Anxiety Road and the Righteous Anger Highway. “How are you answering the phone when you ought to be lyin’ dead somewhere if you’re not here?”

“Well, hello to you, John.”

“Don’t ‘hello’ me. _Fuck you_ , Macca! I’m over here all worried about you, thinking you’ve crashed yourself into a tree or summat, and you’re still there? You haven’t even _left_ yet?” Paul could hear the deep and genuine fear that was beneath all the trembling rage, and he suddenly felt terrible.

“I’m sorry, John. Cleaning lady came and I lost track of time.”

“What the fuck kind of talk is that? So, you don’t call and say you’ll be late?”

“Johnny, you’re soundin’ a bit like Mimi, now,” he tried to make it light.

“I just… fuckin, Macca, I was _worried_ ,” his partner’s voice sounded small and almost child-like. “And I wanted to see you.”

“Truly, I’m sorry, babe,” Paul sighed, now feeling very selfish, indeed. “I’ve been rude, and to Ritch and Mo, too. Is there still time for me to come?”

“Oh, nay, lad, nay. Stay in your pretty flat, now. The food’s done, the kids are crying, there’s snot everywhere and this is just about ended, isn’t it? But you’d better talk to Ritchie, yeah? Or to Mo?”

“Put them on, then? Please?”

Neither of his slighted hosts sounded half as put-out as John did, but then Ritchie was always laid back and Mo was too. “Next time,” they laughed, but, “You’ve upset John, Paulie,” Richie added in a low voice. “S’not like you to forget him. You should talk to him.”

“I will,” Paul promised. “I didn’t…yes, I did forget him. All of you, and I really am sorry. Please tell him I’ll call him tonight. I just…” he looked about the apartment, once more, walking over to the door and turning the deadbolt. “I got lost a bit today, Ritchie. Had a strange day and I just… got lost.”

“Happens to the best of us, son.” Sometimes Macca thought there was no one alive who was kinder than Richard Starkey – _a lad whose had his own dose of suffering, and so early on, with all his illness_.

Hanging up, Paul looked with longing at the piano again but sighed and plopped on to the couch, telephone in hand. _If I’ve been lost, it’s time to get found_ , he thought, as he started dialing numbers.

“Jane, love, how did it go today?”

“Go? Oh, you mean the theatre group.” Jane sounded like he’d caught her at tea. “Hard to know. I was a bit off, I think.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Paul sympathized.

“Hmmm, I blame my boyfriend,” she purred back. “I was a bit tired, you know. A bit low-energy.”

“Ah, so I didn’t imagine it!” He settled back with a sigh that sounded deep and real. “Wasn’t sure any of that was real, last night.”

Jane’s giggle made her sound as young as she was. “Perhaps we should take pictures, next time.”

 _Pictures. A flash of light. Pictures_. He’d seen one of them. No, two, after badgering John Dawson. _There are no negatives. Pictures_. _Janey doesn’t know about them_. _No, and she never will, never, never_. He shook his head again, chasing the images away. “Not so interested in trying that, love, but… last night… we were together, yeah? It was good?” He was trying to sound casual, hoping his voice didn’t give away how anxious he was to hear her say it, for so many reasons. _Because I need to know it was really real, and really good_.

Jane gave a soft, barely-audible groan in answer. “You know it was, Paul. So good I don’t mind telling you again and again if you need to hear it.”

After a bit more flirting and his promise to visit her mid-week, Paul hung up, sighing gratefully at the universe. _Yes. Thank God. I’m not going mad_.

A few minutes later, he was dialing again, this time down to the lobby where – in his most imperious voice, he reminded the concierge of his duties. (“Who is this? Andrew, you say? Are you always at desk on Sundays, Andrew? Do you routinely forget to announce guests and visitors, Andrew?”).

Y _ou really can be a bastard when you want, you know, Paulie-love_. He could all but hear John say it, with approval.

“One more thing, Andrew,” his annoyance spent, Paul deliberately softened his tone. “I met someone, a new tenant subletting on the tenth floor, but I’ve forgotten his name, could you help me to remember? Terrence? Terrence something?”

“Er, well, Mr. McCartney, there is an M.T. MacKenzie new to that floor.” The young man seemed happy to talk of something else. “Perhaps the T is for Terrence,” he added helpfully.

“Aye, perhaps,” Macca agreed, once again sighing – this time closing his eyes in relief – to realize he’d not dreamt the man, or imagined him.

 _Two down_ , he thought as he hung up. _Didn’t imagine Janey practically on the ceiling as she reached last night. Didn’t imagine this Terrence fellow, or stepping into his flat._

 _Didn’t imagine the memories, then, either_ , he realized, wrapping an arm around himself. _The flashback. It was real_. He winced, running it through his mind again. _I didn’t dream it_. He remembered crawling up the dusty stairs, clinging to the door, throwing the deadbolt. _But I hadn’t. Couldn’t have, could I?_ _Then why can’t I remember getting to the couch? And God, why? Why now, when things have been getting better? When will this stop?_

Pulling out his wallet, he found another phone number and called for overseas assistance. A few minutes later, Sophie’s soft voice was on the line.

“Paul! Hello! I am so glad you have called!”

“Why’s that, Sophie, love?”

“Why because it is your promise! To call the little one of a Sunday!”

“Of course,” It had once again slipped his mind that it was Sunday but there was no need to admit it. “I’ve missed hearing your voices,” he said simply, because it was true.

“But you must be glad to be at home, yes? Cozy to sleep in your own bed? Ah, here is the baby.”

“Papa!” Michelle came through the phone loud and clear, at too many decibels. 

“Hello, my pearl,” he cooed. His daughter spat out something in French that seemed to go on for a bit, and then Sophie took the line.

“I didn’t get any of that,” Paul admitted.

“She is too excited, Paul, you should see her. She is jumping about and seems to have lost her English, because she is so glad of your call. We will give her a minute, yes?”

“Alright,” he agreed warmly, happy to chat with Sophie. “Is she singing my song for your mother,” he teased.

“She tries,” the girl laughed. “You will have to return and teach her the words some more. But the melody, yes, she is very loud with it. All over the house!”

“That’s splendid,” Paul chuckled. “If I had the time, I’d come back next week.”

“Always, when you wish,” Sophie said before once more giving the phone to Michelle.

When his daughter had finally run out of conversation, Paul realized he was hungry – he’d eaten nothing since breakfast. “Can’t call John without a bit of sustenance, first” he said to the air as he managed to slice up and apple and a few wedges of cheese. As he munched, he settled by the fire, toasting his still-bare feet against the evening chill. Miss Tildy had set it to blazing, but the thing had died down a bit and so he tossed his paper napkin into the hearth as he licked his fingers. He noticed that the woman had collected all of his mail – which Paul had uncharacteristically strewn all over the apartment, and left it on a nearby desk. _Well, we can clear that out and build up a proper flame, then_ , he thought, settling the pile in his lap and opening up the first missive, which turned out to be a bill for the flat’s owner. Oops. Putting that aside, he lifted the first of several “Special Deliveries” addressed to “James Paul McCartney, MBE.”

Certainly, another engraved invitation to another gathering he had no intention of ever attending, but how many of these things did these toffs line up? He was about to fling the first one into the fire when the phone rang, and there was John Lennon, on the line.

“I could die waiting for you to call me, Macca, it’s that thoughtless you are.”

Paul smiled into the phone, settling back into a corner of the chair. “Mmmm,” he immediately lowered his voice. “Baby, I’m so sorry, you know. I really am. Had kind of a bad afternoon, and couldn’t pull it together.”

“I don’t want to hear about your bad afternoon!” If John had heard his partner’s sweet tone, he wasn’t showing it. “I had a bad afternoon, too! I wanted to see you, and then you had me worried that you’d gone and killed yourself or whatever…”

“Aw, come on, Johnny, I’ve said I’m sorry. I didn’t even know about the thing until Ringo called, and then… I just…” He didn’t want to get into it, didn’t want to tell John he’d fallen apart again at the appearance of another memory, when it changed nothing. _I’m tired of seeming weak_. “You know, Miss Tildy came and suddenly…I felt so tired. Haven’t you ever felt that way?”

Lennon, understanding all-too-well, took it down a notch. “Aye, I guess I have, lad. Sometimes you just feel too tired to be arsed, I know. But that’s usually me, not you.”

“Yeah, well… that’s it. That’s my excuse. Can’t be arsed, today.” Paul chuckled.

“I just wanted to see you, was all.”

“Well, tomorrow, then, love, yeah? I spent the day working on something I want you to hear.”

“Oh, something good, is it?” John had been feeling completely uninspired, so if Paul was writing, that was promising. “Aye, it’s time we start gearin’ up to record, then. I’ll plan to spend the night, yeah?”

Macca chuckled, “We’ll see what Cyn has to say about that.”

“Well, I’m claiming fair-sies. If Jane got to spend last night with you, I get a turn, too. How’d your date go, by the way?”

“Good,” Paul noted the hint of surprise in his voice as he answered. But it had been good. Jane confirmed it! “She was great. About everything, the baby, me running off to France – she was great.”

“And she stayed over, aye?” The question was grudging.

“You know she did,” the younger man frowned at the phone, a little nettled at hearing Lennon’s jealousy rise so quickly. “And by the way, what were you doing, skulking around last night? What was that about? Were you spyin’ on me, then, John?”

“Told you,” John was abrupt. “Returnin’ your drawers was all. Tossed ‘em somewhere. Cyn’s callin’ me, mate, I gotta go. Tomorrow, then, aye?”

And with that, the line went dead.

He wasn’t annoyed. Paul was quite used to John Lennon’s sudden and selfish ways, and he was still feeling bad about indulging his muse all afternoon and scaring his friends, making his lover anxious. With the shake of a head, he finished his last apple slice and looked at the envelope he’d been about to fling into the fire. “Ah well, Theodore,” he called over to the stuffed bear across from him, “let’s see what it is I’m turning down then, anyway.”

It was indeed an invitation, but it looked oddly provincial, nothing like what he’d expect from an official MBE gathering, and Paul frowned as he studied the cover, which showed a bare-branched tree full of hearts where the leaves should be, and the words “A Valentine’s Dance.”

“Oh, toss this,” he said to himself. “What is it, now, high school for balding old men?”

Inside, in a neat calligraphy, he read:

“Ugh, no thank you,” he said aloud, tossing the thing into the fireplace with a flick of his wrist. “There are better things Jane and I could be doing…” He watched the flames begin to lick at the heavy card as he immediately opened the next one and pulled a manila office folder.

He nearly dropped the whole file, his eyes bulging open as he beheld a thin magazine featuring a young man showering, and bearing the title _Hot Men!_ A note was clipped to the cover, written in red block letters, as though not to be missed. “Page 13 may be of particular interest”.

_No. God, no._

_God, please no…_

With trembling hands, suddenly slick from a panicky rush of sweat that seemed to cover his body in an instant, Paul opened the thing. He could feel his gorge rise as he quickly turned through pages of grainy, poorly lit and explicit images of young men of various races, mostly nude -- often in couples or threesomes -- all of them fully erect, and most of them huge. Most were posed ( _Are they posed? Are they real?_ ) in various acts of anal intercourse or fellatio. Page 13, the inside of the back cover, was a collage of pictures. There were countless photos snipped into unusual sizes and shapes, raggedly cropped so as to zoom in on specifics -- young lips on bulging cocks; fists on cocks just coming; ejaculate on anuses or closed eyes or chins. Paul’s eyes scanned over the page, his brows knitted as he looked and looked among the crowded images, hoping he would not find what he was wildly fearing.

_No. Please, please, no._

_Oh God…_

_There it is._

There he was. It was a very small, narrow image, strewn in between larger ones. There was no face, but Paul knew his own form, could recognize his own torso – slightly pigeon-chested, his nipples a bit farther apart than most. There were arms grasping him from behind, one on his waist, the other going higher, the hand squeezing at a nipple. His neck was stretched as his head was thrown back, as if in pleasure, the cleft of his chin was visible. Below, just before the photo cut off, a hand could be seen, gripping his erect cock. 

He couldn’t breathe. The magazine slipped through his fingers as he leaned forward, gasping for air.

_No. Jesus, God, no. No. No. No…please… please no…_


	5. Tell Me What You See...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an intense session with a defeated and ashamed Cholly (who provides only one small lead) John Dawson recalls the night before -- being called for help and arriving late at the Belgravia flat only to be spooked by a disoriented, half-naked Paul McCartney.

John Dawson was leaned back in a chair, glaring across the table at a ramshackle young man who looked at him rather helplessly.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, his voice trembling a little. “I’m sorry for everything. I wish I’d never…” He closed his eyes, swallowing loudly before lowering his head. “I’m ashamed, now. I’m so… ashamed.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” Dawson sounded unconvinced. “Sometimes a little shame is a springboard to becoming a better person. It is interesting how so little time in prison can have such a startling effect on a boy’s perspective, isn’t it?”

“ _Please._ ” The young man sat up, his cuffed hands reaching forward. “I wish I could say more, but I’ve told you everything. Please. Can’t you help me? Get me moved, or… transferred, or put into isolation, or something? _Anything._ ”

The retired copper understood all too well what was behind the plea, and a small part of him was sympathetic. Such a soft-looking young man, slender of build, not much strength to him. Yes, prison, even just a few weeks of prison, must have taught young Rupert Chalice -- “Cholly” to his friends – a few sharp realities that had formerly gone unexplored in his thinking.  
  
“All solitary confinement does is ensure that no one will hear you scream, son. You’re better off where you are.”

He hated how hard he sounded – hated how hard he felt, in his heart – as he sat across the man who had created such a wreckage, such an ongoing nightmare for his friend, Paul, who never deserved it. _Not that anyone does_ , he reminded himself. _No one deserves rape. Not even this… pathetic procurer, this rapist, himself_.

He modified his tone, just the smallest bit, if for no other reason than to remind himself that he, John Dawson, had sat across the table from all manner of vile people without himself becoming vile. He didn’t want to fall into that trap, now, no matter how heady the temptation. “I’m sure you are sorry,” Dawson said in a quieter voice. “It all looks quite different when you’re the one being buggered against your will, yeah?” 

Cholly’s haunted face collapsed as the sobs broke from him. “I just… I never meant for it…”

It had been a difficult hour for both men. John Dawson, by dint of his decades on the force, and now his connection to certain friendly operators within MI5, had been able to secure a room for this interview, and to bring in “paper materials” that went unexamined by security. “Consulting with an ongoing investigation,” he’d murmured to curious eyes, and that was true enough. He’d spoken to Chalice more than anyone else, and the hope was that familiarity might bring about some fast answers.

Those answers, largely unsatisfying, had come fast, indeed, because Cholly hoped co-operation would equal help, would get him away from what had become his living Hell.

He’d gasped to see the magazine image, as Dawson pointed it out to him. “I didn’t do that,” he said immediately, his eyes wide with terror and truth. “I mean, _yes_ , it’s – it’s a picture I took, but I didn’t sell that to them. I don’t know where they got it.”

The detective’s voice was low and steady, evoking a stillness that could erupt into a concussive rage at any moment. “Last we talked, Cholly, you told me you’d destroyed all the negatives.”

“I did! I had,” the young man insisted. “I’m telling you the truth.”

Dawson lit a cigarette. On seeing the young man watch him do it, he shook another from the pack and slipped it between his lips, and giving a light. “As it happens, I believe you,” he said. He opened the large envelope he’d brought with him, slipping out six photos and laying them out, one-by-one, before the young man’s eyes.

“Some of these I’ve seen already, and discussed with you,” the copper reminded him as the young man sighed and tried to look away. “A few I had not. These two, for instance,” he tapped the images with two fingers. "And the one in the magazine. Hadn’t seen them. Part of the whole, though, yes? All the filthy pictures you took?”

Both cuffed hands trembling, Cholly took the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling. “Yes. But h—how did you get them?”

“Oh, someone was thoughtful enough to send all of these to your victim, Cholly. The nice young man who is still living with the after-effects of your profiteering. Can you imagine it? Your ass being mangled for the pleasure of others and then seeing photographs of it, just when you’re feeling like you’ve rounded a corner? Bet you’d not like it, son.”

A wet groan answered him, as the younger man brought his hands to his head. “I swear, I destroyed…I burned them. I promise, I did!”

“Yes, I know. I can see by the glare on each one of these images that they are photographs of photographs – that someone without negatives has created new ones, by simply taking pictures of the pictures. A bit less defined, a bit lower quality, but the subject is still recognizable, yes?” Dawson’s voice went harsh above Cholly’s tears. “Remove your hands from your eyes and look at them. Confirm what I just said, do you?”

“Yes…” A nod, another wet swallow as his tears fell openly on to the table. “You’re right.”

“Well, Cholly…” John Dawson simulated incredulity, all but mocking the young man before him. “That must mean someone has _copies_ of your work. You never mentioned that before, did you?”

Rupert Chalice shook his head, emphatically. “I didn’t think…I didn’t think it would matter. He seemed to just want them for himself.”

“And who would that be, then?”

“I don’t know!”

Dawson’s hand came down hard as he slammed the table in fury. “Don’t _tell_ me you don’t know! You gave someone these photographs. Am I supposed to believe you just passed them off to some random stranger?”

“No, no, please…” the younger man was trembling like a trapped rabbit before the dogs of a hunt. “Please, stop yelling. I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you everything!”

Sadly, there hadn’t been much to tell, nothing helpful in any event. “It was the day after,” Chalice began. “Later in the day. I got a phone call at my station…”

It had only been a voice, no name attached, smooth, polished. A little oily, in fact, but Chalice was himself so slippery, he’d not really noticed, at the time. “He said he wanted to thank me for – for ‘the evening’s entertainment,’ he called it. And, and that h-h-he wanted to purchase some ‘mementos’ – again, his word – if I’d developed them. I said I had, and he said ‘excellent.’ And then he asked me if I had some shots he said he particularly hoped to see.”

“You recognized the voice,” Dawson stated.

“No, no, not really. I mean… familiar, yes, but I couldn’t tell you if it was one of the fellows who’d first you know… approached me, or the guy who came into it later.”

“Go on, then.”

The voice on the phone had wanted some very specific photographs, five of which were currently before the two men. “He said, ‘Cocks in his mouth. The first one, down his throat, and then with the two, when we had two there. That other one, the bruiser of a fellow having him from behind….’ That’s what he said he wanted.” 

“So, these five images, yes?” Dawson pointed them out, stacking them together and slipping them back into the envelope.

“Yes, and the… the one in the magazine,” Chalice nodded.

“And these others?”

The shaken man stretched his neck, as though resisting an urge to preen. “He told me to round it out to ten, choose four more that I liked and round it off to ten photos. He’d pay me 100 pounds.”

“I imagine you were thrilled,” Dawson couldn’t quite stop the sneer from visiting his tone.

“It’s a lot of money,” the cuffed hands were clenching and unclenching.

 _Yes, and every man has his price. For a cheap lowlife like you, it must have seemed a heady bonus_. The detective waited a moment, permitting Chalice to compose himself. Then, “Are you telling me, now, that you sold these to someone you never saw? Seems unbelievable to me, Cholly. How did that happen?”

“He arranged it,” the young man spat. “God… smooth operator,” the words were bitter. “Next day a courier came with a locked canvas bag, you know, like the banks use?”

Dawson nodded, his eyes narrowed. “A courier service, then? Uniformed?”

“No, just a lad, scruffy – looked like about eighteen or so… when he arrived, my phone rang and I was given three numbers – you know, combination, to open the lock. I took out the envelope, saw the cash,” He paused, sucking in a huge load of snot. “I slipped my envelope with the pictures in it, locked the thing up… was over in a few seconds.”

“So… someone called your desk precisely when the bag arrived and gave you the combination? And that was that?” _Perhaps someone right there in the lobby…_

Colly nodded furiously. “That was it. I never saw anyone. Never got another call.”

“Anyone.” Dawson’s ears picked up at that. “You mean ‘him’, whoever he was?”

A shrug. “The numbers were given me by a woman’s voice… that’s all I know…”

“So, you didn’t have a second chance to hear who was making this… purchase, then?” Dawson watched the young man wipe his nose with his sleeve and frowned, pulling out his handkerchief and tossing it before the lad. Cholly used it gratefully, still shaking his head.

 _Likely a secretary. Someone with staff_ , the copper thought. _Might be worth pursuing_.

It was the barest of leads, but it was something. Of the four assailants, they had two names, besides Chalice’s -- two men with solid alibies – and one wholly unknown entity. _Go back, access their staff. Some female might remember being asked to call a hotel, speak numbers into a phone_.

As Cholly’s quivers leveled off, Dawson asked, “Young or older? Did she sound young or older?”

The prisoner shook his head, heaving a shuddery sigh. “I don’t know. Middle? Not too young, not a kid. But not old?”

Dissatisfied, but knowing he had all he was going to get, Dawson began packing up. He slipped the magazine and the rest of the photos into his package, and then into a leather portfolio. As he rose, he caught sight the young man’s cuff’s as they reached across the table. “Please…can I ask…”

“What is it you want to know,” he wondered.

“The…” Chalice choked it out. “Paul…is he… how is he?”

“Don’t _speak_ his name,” Dawson growled, his lip curling. “Don’t let it pass your filthy lips, as though you know him.” He blinked, a bit startled, himself, at the fierce, undisguised note of protection and possession in his voice.

“Sorry, I’m sorry… I just…” The tears began again. “I’m so sorry, and…I regret it all, I do.” He looked up at the cop. “I just wondered how he’s doing. If he’s, you know… okay.”

Standing at the door, fully aware of his daunting size before the slight young man, and how it emphasized their standings, Dawson gave a pointed look. “I’ll let you guess how he’s doing, given what you now know. But he has people around him who love him, and are looking after him. So, I’d say he’s doing a damn sight better than you are.” _Too cruel, too cruel, don’t be a bastard, John_. He suppressed the desire to add, “But then again, at least it only happened to him the once.”

Still, he couldn’t wholly hold himself back. “Of course, each time these sorts of things show up, you know – photographs, now the magazine -- it’s all new and terrible, because it’s like it’s all happening to him again.”

He held the door open for the custodial guard who took Chalice by the arm as the younger man rose. As all three men stepped into the corridor, he turned to Dawson. “I know it doesn’t help, but…please, tell him I - I am sorry. _Please_.”

The detective, his better angels taking over, looked up from under his greying brows. “Get yourself a priest, son,” he advised softly. “It’s a great weight of burden you’ve cast on to him. And that you’re carrying in your own self as well.”

Their echoing footsteps rang through the hallway, Dawson heading to the fresh air, and nearly mad with the need of it, the other men heading toward locks and keys.

As he signed out of the prison, the big cop murmured to a familiar face. “You might want to keep an eye on that young man, Chalice,” he said. “You might say he’s doing hard time with his fellow prisoners.”

The other cop’s eyebrows went up, and he nodded, giving a discreet thumbs up.

The need for air was real, and as soon as he slipped into the driver’s seat, John Dawson rolled down his window, gulping deep breaths of the crisp January air. _What a way to start a new year_ , he thought.

Without no coverage at the hotel until eleven o’ clock, it had taken him two hours – two hours -- before he could get to Paul, and the fact of it was still haunting him, as was the weird blankness the young man’s voice when he had called. “John. It’s me. It’s Paul.” As though he thought he would not be known. The chill stillness of his tone, as though he were on auto-pilot. “I need you. Please come, John. I need you.”

And then the click as he hung up.

Dawson had called back immediately but the phone rang and rang – twelve times – before an exhausted sounding Paul McCartney picked up. “Paulie, what’s happened,” he’d asked, his heart full of fear. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t know.” Again, that still tone, but this time softer, nearly a whisper. “I don’t know what’s happened. It’s bad, John.”

“Son, I can’t get there for a few hours yet. Can I call Brian for you? Or John?”

“No, no, I can’t have it,” Paul whispered. “They can’t see it. And John drives bad.”

Dawson cursed under his breath. _What the hell had happened, now? He was so well the other night_! “What about… Paulie, love, what about that friend of yours, Father Sean.”

“NO!” The answer was immediate and loud. “He… I can’t show _him_ this.”

“Paulie, you sound like you need someone with you right now--”

“I can wait, I can wait,” Paul was insisting, his tone quiet again, as though he were deliberately controlling himself, holding himself together a syllable at a time. “Please, just come as soon as you can…”

“Are you safe?” He had to ask it.

“Yes...” It sounded tentative.

“Are you… you’re not hurt, are you? Paulie?”

Macca actually laughed a little, a cold, detached sound. “Not physically. _Please_.” It was a hiss, now. “Come. I need your help.”

“You will have it, love, as soon as I can be there, you know I will.”

“Thank you, John. Thank you. They can’t see…”

As he waited through the tense hours Dawson’s imagination began working overtime – the unfortunate consequence of having seen entirely too many unthinkable things become reality over the course of his life. _What can’t they see? What has happened_? He was envisioning every possible scenario, from the television not working, to photographs slipped under a door, to finding Paul in a sitting room full of blood, his wrists slit, or his dick sliced off and in his hand. No, he said he was unhurt, the cop remembered.

 _Yes, he’d said it, but then he’d laughed. ‘Not physically’. It could mean anything_. He could walk in and find the lad with his head in the oven, for all he knew. When his relief showed up fifteen minutes before shift’s end, Dawson was never so grateful. He nearly killed himself driving to Belgravia, full pedal to the metal.

The concierge sent him right up, “Mr. McCartney called down to say you’d be coming.” When he reached the flat, he found the door slightly opened and suddenly Dawson felt like he couldn’t breathe. _Paul would never leave the door open_.

Or, apparently, if he was shaken enough, he would. The big cop pushed open the door soundlessly and crept in on surprisingly light feet. He saw Paul, in the wingback chair. He was facing the cold fireplace, bare shoulders shivering. Theodore was in his arms.

“Paul?” Dawson’s voice was gentle. “I’m here. Are you well, love?”

Macca turned his head, a puzzled frown showing on his pale face. “Am I—am I well, John Dawson? I’m… I’m not sure. I feel like…” his voice faded out, and then came back. “I can’t get warm, you know.”

The detective breathed out a huge sigh of relief. He looked fine. Cold and disoriented, but otherwise unhurt. “Well, of course you’re freezing, lad, why are you sittin’ there before a cold hearth with no shirt? And where’s your slippers?”

“I’m not sure…”

Putting on as cheerful as mask as he could, a worried Dawson disappeared into Paul’s bedroom for a moment, returning with black socks and slippers. He took a knee before his trembling friend and raised one ice-cold foot, gently helping him into a sock, and then a slipper, and then doing it again, all the while making soft, reassuring remarks – more like encouraging coos, he thought – to the numb-faced young man before him.

“But, where is your shirt, Paul?” He wondered as he looked about the place. “Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“I had to look, to make sure it was me.”

 _Oh, that doesn’t sound good_. “You what, now, son?”

Paul sighed, as if it were obvious. This time managed to engage Dawson by eye as he repeated himself. “I had to make sure it was _me_.”


	6. Double Negatives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detective John Dawson has arrived at Paul's apartment and finds the young man in a state of unusual disorientation. There is a lot he needs to understand, and a lot to look at, "over there", where the lad won't go. Things have gone bad. The photographs are getting out in a limited way, but that is promised to change unless a demand is met. Things are about to get very hairy, very risky, indeed. ***********Please Note Trigger Warnings***********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know everyone is very anxious to read some scenes of neediness and tenderness between Paul and John and that will happen next chapter. 
> 
> But in this chapter, we're with another John and Paul, and they need each other, too. Perhaps not "madly," as George Martin said of Lennon and McCartney, but badly.

“Paulie, what do you mean, love, I don’t understand?” Dawson finally found Paul’s shirt in the bathroom, and was helping him into it. “You ‘had to make sure it was you’, _why, exactly_? Come on, let’s button you up, now, you’re like ice.”

“It’s over there,” Paul answered, nodding his head toward the fireplace. “Page thirteen, I had to see. I had to make sure”

“Yes, so you’ve said, but I still don’t understand,” the cop looked up from where he’d begun buttoning the shirt.

“On _page thirteen_ ,” Paul repeated, insisting. “I had to make sure it was me.” He pulled his shirt open, once more exposing his torso, and threw his head far back, stretching the neck. “It was. It is. Me.” He pointed again to the fireplace. “Over there.”

“Yes, I’ll get the fire going in a minute,” Dawson answered, still frowning and fixated on getting Paul fully dressed. “But you shouldn’t be _this_ cold. You do have central heating.”

“Been barefoot all day.” The young man lifted his feet, as though surprised to find himself properly slippered. “ _Oh_. I guess not anymore.”

“You know what, have you eaten? Let’s get you into the kitchen, and get some hot tea and food into you.” John Dawson led the lad by the arm, and Macca was as co-operative as a child. “Can I have whiskey in my tea?”

The cop barked out a laugh. “Absolutely, son. We’ll both do that.”

“Thanks. Good.”

“But there’s nothing to eat,” Dawson discovered.

“I had an apple.” Once more, Paul sounded almost childlike, as though he’d been waiting all day for someone to talk to. “Had cheese and an apple, and then…” He stalled, making a face.

“Well, you’re having soup,” the cop said, finding a can. “And then you’ll tell me what, Paulie, what happened?”

“It’s over there,” again a nod toward the fireplace.

 _Something is bothering him, ‘over there’. As though he can’t bring himself to say the words._ John Dawson, who had been chatting about anything and everything until he could go ‘over there’ and discover the issue, finally settled Paul at the kitchen table with a steaming bowl of soup, and a whiskey-laden tea. “Dig in, son,” he patted the lad’s shoulders, “and I’ll get a new fire going.”

Paul reached for Dawson’s wrist. “It’s bad, over there,” he warned in a quiet voice.

“Paulie,” Dawson mild exasperation was tempered with real affection as he smiled reassuringly. “Have your soup. I’ll be right back and I’ll venture nothing is as bad as you think.”

What Dawson saw as he approached the fire was a pile of opened mail – envelopes of varying sizes, strewn about, along with photographs and pornographic magazines. “What the…” He picked the lot of it up and then settled in the chair, appalled but curious.

 _No_ , he decided quietly. _Paul wouldn’t want John or Brian – or anyone – to see these_. The cop more than understood. No one would want these images shared, but especially not this poor lad, with his pride. And the easy way he had of feeling ashamed.

He saw the one magazine, “Hot Men” – _well that’s putting it in plain language_ \-- with its invitation to turn to page thirteen, which he instantly did, having no need to leaf through the thing. The page was an overpacked collage of images which forced a slow perusal. Paul apparently thought he had seen himself there, but Dawson had frowned over the page for some minutes, thinking he must have been mistaken, before finding the small, narrow photo and realized that yes, based on the pose Paul had replicated for him, it was Macca’s body being mauled and manhandled ( _and_ _was ever a word more accurate_ , John thought), and featured among the rest of the pornographic images. _His worst nightmare, or one of them. My poor lad_.

A second magazine, subtly promising “ManEaters _”_ also contained a paperclipped note, all in block letters, on the front cover. “YOU CAN ENJOY SEEING THIS ALL ABOUT IF YOU’D RATHER.”

*************

The thing opened immediately to a page made thick with cut-outs and pasted images: Macca’s slackened face stuffed by his rapists, singular and in multiples, the pictures glued over what looked to be rather young bodies. _Evil, criminal stuff_. Dawson closed the magazine, repulsed by having viewed even a hint of the depravity. Instead, he considered what it meant for Paul _So, something is riding in on Paulie in the form of a blackmail? But what is the either/or?  
  
 *************_

He began looking through the rest of it -- photographs of Paul McCartney being brutally assaulted. Dawson had seen some of them, before. They were the same images that had first been slipped the lad’s way from under a hotel room door. But a few were new to him, and – to the cop’s distress – Paul looked to be obviously suffering in at least two.

 _Horrible_. He shoved them all together, away from his eyes. _So much for Cholly destroying the negatives_. But the thing was still unclear. The photos were not as clear or sharp as he’d remembered them, were they? He forced himself to look down, again – to run a professional eye over the content, deliberately excluding anything of Paul from his observation. He scanned several photos, looking for anything that might be lying about in the background, anything that…

 _The glare_. He noted a glare within each image, always the same, and it suggested something obvious to the cop: these were pictures of pictures. Someone had these images and was clever enough – or wicked enough – to have photographed them in order to create new negatives. And he was apparently willing to disburse them unless some price was met.

Dawson sighed, lowering his head. So, this part of the nightmare begins anew. What was it this tormentor wanted from Paul? Money, _again_?

He searched through the sheaf of additional mail in his hand, discarding what seemed irrelevant until he found a folded sheet of fine, heavy paper – paper specifically chosen to express esteem for the recipient, or for the sender, himself.

Or herself?

Unfolding it, he saw the familiar block lettering again, and shuddered as he read it. _Himself, surely_.  
  


The cop’s gorge rose. He was suddenly swallowing back bile. _Oh, vomit, vomit. This is a true fiend, a sick mind,_ Dawson thought. _Will this poor boy ever be left alone to heal? What kind of games are these? No wonder he’s…_

He hadn’t heard Paul’s padding steps approaching _._ Macca was holding his bowl of soup but avoiding the area, choosing instead to sit on the couch. He looked a bit more clear-eyed. “Told you,” he said to Dawson. “It’s bad.”

“Yes, love, it is bad,” the copper met his eyes. “But we’ll defeat this.”

“I thought the negatives were burned,” Paul’s eyes looked huge as he finished up the soup and put down the bowl. “I thought he said he burned them. How… I don’t understand how…” He shook his head, suddenly hid his face in his hands, curling into himself and looking very small. After a moment, he looked up again, more composed but with an expression of deep, very real hurt on his face. “You said you believed him.”

“I did,” John Dawson sighed, joining him on the couch. “I did believe him.”

Neither of them could bear to say the name, “Cholly”.

“But someone has them, now,” Paul continued, his voice still rather eerily monotone, as though he was detaching himself as best he could from the realities before him. “Your instincts were wrong, John. How could they be wrong?”

 _I trusted you_. The words went unsaid but the cop heard them, plain as day, and it felt like a crushing betrayal. _I trusted you and relaxed about this, and now it’s here, and I trusted you_.

“I’m sorry, Paulie, love,” Dawson offered, his hand squeezing his shoulder. “My gut said he was telling the truth and I still believe he was. These are…” He really didn’t want to tell say, didn’t want to let Macca know all of it. But there was nothing for it. _His story, his life. He’s entitled to know_. “Paul…” he began, his reluctance straining the cop’s voice, “dear, it looks to me like… someone had access to these specific prints, perhaps they’d been handed over, or bought from… that miscreant. And… I’m so sorry to tell you this, but, I suspect there are new negatives, now. Made from them.”

“New negatives…” The words came softly, but riding on a gasp. His face a blank, Paul nodded and then looked around, as if he was missing something. “The tea,” he whispered, heading back into the kitchen. He managed to return with both cups, carried on a tray that trembled only slightly, and placed it on the table. Wordlessly – there seemed nothing more to say -- the two men slurped at cool tea that seemed mostly whiskey, and lit cigarettes. After a moment, Paul leaned forward, one arm clutching at his own waist. “So, then…how do I do it?”

“Do what, son?”

“I don’t know how to, you know, how to get in touch with him. How do I tell him… how do I _do_ it? Agree to it?” His huge eyes were eloquent with fear as he met the cop’s eyes. “To make the – the ‘date’, you know. To meet him.”

“Paul!” Dawson’s disgust at the thought showed in his face, and in his tone. “Over my dead body will you give in to this demand, this blackmail, this…”

“I tried it your way, John Dawson,” Paul said quietly. “I need this to go away. I have to do it… I don’t see any other way.”

“Paul, that… that _note_. It’s a note from a psychopath, an utter madman.”

“Yes…”

“It’s a note from someone who would rape a man without a moment’s conscience, who…” He stopped himself from letting loose with the detailed rant his heart wanted to indulge. Gentling his voice, Dawson reached out, circling Paul’s wrist with his hand. “A rapist is no one to take on good faith, love.”

“But I can’t have it, John,” Paul was shaking his head from side to side, looking stubborn and determined. “I can’t have any more of these surprises… I’ll just do it. I’ll just do it…”

“No, Paul,”

“I’ve lived through bad things, before,” Paul huffed. “After four men? What can he do? I’ll just…” The bravado ran out, and his head fell again. “I’ll just let him do what he wants, and then take the stuff…”

“You will _not!_ ” Dawson said with finality, his own expression leaving no question room for argument.

“John Dawson, I said _I can’t have it!”_ But his spine seemed snapped, his firm resolve shattered. The lad collapsed against the cop, his voice going high, small and broken. “I can’t… when does it stop?”

“It will stop, love,” Dawson pulled the weeping young man into his arms, lowering his voice to a soothing lull, and rubbing Paul’s back. “I know, son. I know you’re terrified. You’d be mad, if not.”

“He’s going to kill me…” Macca groaned into his ear. “Whoever this guy is…he’s going to fuck me to death! He’s gonna fuck me until I’m dead and, and then cut off my head for a prize. He’s… why won’t he leave me alone? Why don’t we know who he is?”

“Shush, Paulie, darling, shush. We’ll find him. He wants a ‘date’ with you? We’ll play along. Then we’ll use his own plans to smoke him out…” God! _This poor boy is terrorized, now. Not enough they nearly killed him, now they’re utterly fucking with his head_.

“Play along…okay…I can--”

“Not _you_ ,” Dawson emphasized. “I’m not putting you anywhere near this. It’s too dangerous. But we’ll respond. We’ll act like you’re game for it. But we’ll not use you.” He lifted Paul’s head, a big thumb wiping away from one cheek, and then planted a sound kiss on his forehead. “We’ll work this out, my lad. And then we’ll have him. And hopefully that means we’ll have all of them.”

Paul nodded but said nothing, only leaning against John Dawson as he would lean against Georgie or Ritch, at any time. After a few moments, he spoke up again. “I guess I’ll have to tell the lads, won’t I?”

“Yes, I think you should. You’re going to need their support. And I’ll ring John in the morning, tell him to get here.”

Macca nodded once more, going quiet as he thought, remembering that he liked the feeling of the big man’s respiration, the soothing up and down of it. When he spoke again, he sounded more like himself. “Something happened, you know…”

“Hmm?” John Dawson had himself been deep in thought, wondering if he’d be able to get to the prison before his next shift started, to see Chalice. “What’s that, son?”

“I have a new neighbor,” Paul explained. “He’s just below. Old Scotsman, and a complete bore.”

“A new neighbor?” The cop frowned at him.

“Aye, he’s a sublet, like me.

“And what tells you he’s boring, then?”

“A minute’s conversation,” Paul showed a small smile. “We shared the lift and I helped him carry a box to his door.”

“Too old to do for himself, is he,” Dawson queried. “How old would you say he is?”

Macca pulled himself off the cop’s chest, sitting back as he considered. “He’s _old_ ,” he emphasized, again with that small grin. “And gray-haired. At least your age, I think.”

“Oh, ye bastard,” Dawson muttered good-naturedly. “Don’t be cute.”

“Well, I can try, but…”

“Yes, yes, I know. You’re ‘the cute one’. Gettin’ predictable, Paulie.”

The two men chuckled, and Dawson lit a cigarette, tossing the pack to Macca, who did the same. “Don’t know how you smoke this rough shit,” he said.

“A copper’s pension, love. And my stipend at the hotel. No Turkish blends for me.” He peered at Paul through the haze of smoke. “But what were you going to tell me, before you interrupted yourself with your neighbor? You said something happened?”

“Oh, yeah,” The younger man shook his head, as though to clear it. “I’m all over the place, aren’t I? Well, it’s because I helped him -- Terrence, he calls himself, or Terry. Since he’s just below me I took the stairway up, you know? Rather than wait for the lift.”

“Of course…but, Paulie,” Dawson’s hand reached out again. “Perfectly reasonable to do that, but I think for the time being you ought not. Too solitary.”

“No, no worries on that head, John Dawson. Not going near them again.” Paul shuddered, feeling the skin of his arms prickle as he recalled falling apart on the staircase. “Suddenly remembered being hauled up the stairs, that night, all dopey and my feet and legs not working right.”

“You’d been heavily dosed, son,” the detective reassured him.

“Aye, seems I was. I remembered…” He shook his head again, and sighed. “How do people take it in their heads to do this to someone?”

Dawson gave him a keen look. “Did you recall anything that might help us, now? A face, a feature? A scar, or a mole? A tattoo? _Anything?”_

Paul shook his head vehemently, scratching at his hair. “No. I just remembered the stairs. And hands. So many hands grabbing at me, and pulling me. And laughing. Making jokes.” He shuddered again. “Hands all over me, squeezing and… and…” He sighed, falling back against the cushions. “I nearly couldn’t get to my flat. Almost fell on the stairs.” He looked at Dawson with a wry expression. “Then I’d have had a head injury for real, at least.”

“But you were alright, then?”

“It’s like I blacked out, John. Woke up here, on the couch but really couldn’t remember…thought I’d thrown the lock but the cleaner came up, you know, Miss Tildy, and… seems I hadn’t.”

Dawson shrugged, as though to say he understood. “First time you’ve remembered something while you’ve been alone. I’m sure it threw you.”

“Aye, it really did. And I was so…I was disappointed because I’d been feeling so much better.”

“I’m sorry,” the cop said again, for no other reason than because he was. He felt for the lad, and all the terrors yet before him. “It’s going to take time,” he added. “And of course, that evil shite over there.” He tossed his head toward the fireplace, as Paul had so many times. “It’s not helping.” He ran his hand affectionately through Paul’s hair. “Why don’t you go to bed, son? You look all done-in.”

Macca was tamping out his cigarette, his unhappy thoughts showing in his frown. “Nah, nah. I…” He shot a look Dawson’s way, quick and shame-laden. “Did you see the pictures, over there?”

“I did, of course.” Dawson’s tone was careful.

“Was it… was it all the same stuff you’d seen already?”

“Some of it was, yes…”

“I saw them, too,” Paul’s kept his eyes down as his face went a bit pale.

“I assumed you had.”

“Ah, God,” the younger man was running both hands through his hair, as though trying to smooth down his own thoughts. “I was wrong to look. I shouldn’t have. Finally understood why you wouldn’t show them to me, before.”

“I hope you didn’t study them,” John Dawson said softly.  
  
 *************

“No, just… just the one. There was one… Me layin’ over something. Being… _had_ , taken from behind. A hand holdin’ my head by my hair. A co-.” He tried again. “A cock shoved in my mouth.”

The cop only nodded, murmuring something vague.

Paul’s voice went very soft. “I was crying.”

Another nod. “Yes, love.”

*************

“I was crying, John Dawson. Tears runnin’ down my face. But why wasn’t I fighting?” His voice rose as his self-disgust grew. “Why wasn’t I throwing them off, biting their cocks in half, spitting in their faces?” When the lad lifted his face again, the cop saw nothing but agony. “What’s wrong with me, John? Why did I just lay there and take it?”

“Again, love. _Heavily drugged_.” Dawson pulled the blanket from the back of the couch. “Nothing is wrong with you. When your limbs aren’t working, you’re not fighting your way out of anything. You cannot blame yourself for not doing what you physically could not do.” He draped Paul’s shoulders. “And I do think you should sleep now. Put those images out of your head. Go to bed, get some rest.”

“Your mouth to God’s ears.” Paul seemed to agree that he was done for the night. “But are you staying? You’re staying, right?”

“Yes, of course,” the cop reassured him. “I’ll be here. You won’t be alone. I’ve some work to do, so I’ll be up.”

“Can I sleep here, then? While you work?”

Dawson rose from the couch and smiled, but it was a smile without joy. “Of course, lad. Lay back. Undo your trousers so you don’t strangle yer balls, and then rest you. I’ll restart the fire.”

Paul sighed, instantly obeying and snuggling into a pillow as he reached one hand up to cop, who took it. “Thank you, John. Thanks for coming when I called.”

“I’m sorry I made you wait…”

“You came. That’s all that matters.” He was already closing his eyes as Dawson patted his hand, and then tucked it under the covers.

 _I’m sorry I made you wait…_ It was the regret Dawson had been carrying with himself for twenty years. _I made you wait_.

Ned had lain, dying, and the younger John Dawson had been too far away to be immediately present. As with Paul, this night, he’d been delayed by circumstances, not intent. And he’d borne regret for that, blamed himself ( _no,_ _cursed myself!_ ), while imagining Ned, laying there, surrounded by strangers and the sorts of people who wondered if a rape victim had somehow ‘asked for it’, and wanting only his John by his side. _Wondering where I was_. _I couldn’t get there fast enough, but it still took too long_.

“You came, that’s what matters.” Paul’s words echoed back at him, and Dawson, kneeling before the fireplace, suddenly realized that something had changed within him, within all of the endless echoes. The weight that had pressed on him for two decades seemed lighter, somehow, and he realized he was thinking of Neddy without feeling the great interior _wince_ to his soul that he’d become so used to.

Paul did that, he knew. He couldn’t rightly recall all of it – so much of what happened on New Year’s Eve had become like a funhouse mirror in John Dawson’s memory, all wavey and distorted, too full of realities and illusions to be trustworthy. But he remembered that they’d kissed each other, he and Paul. Warmly, and sweetly. He remembered how Ned had somehow appeared – had become a part of it all, and was saying all the words the big cop so needed to hear, the words that helped him see things through Neddy’s own eyes. “You held my hand…”

 _There was more_ , he thought, now. _But I’ll not chase that memory, or wonder what was real or not_ , he decided. _Let that be a gift of mystery, then_. _Fine_. He didn’t need to think about it. He knew only one thing -- but for a practical man like Dawson it was entirely enough: that while he was out of his head and in an unprecedented, emotional and needy state, Paul McCartney, with burdens enough of his own, had been kind to him. He had said the words that needed saying, had consented to be a necessary – desperately necessary – illusion in an unexpected moment.

 _And it helped me_ , Dawson acknowledged now. _Released me_. Alright yes, maybe he did remember it all; he knew that he’d been ‘released’ in more ways than one.

But it was true. After decades of regret, misery and lonely self-doubt, he could today think of Neddy without the incessant ache, the gnawing self-accusations that left him so drained and weary.

The absence of all that noise was allowing the good memories -- all the soft, beautiful ones Dawson had not felt entitled to dwell on -- come back to the surface. _I am free to just love you, Neddy, and remember you, without all the rest of it. Without all the darkness._

 _Paul had done that_ , he thought again. _And I am now, finally, a free man. Released_. His gratitude to his friend – this poor, terrorized young man -- felt boundless. _I love him, Neddy_ , he thought with a small smile as he shoveled ash into a small bucket, _Not the love as we knew it. But as a man loves another man he truly esteems. And I will do anything for him. And now, what is this?_

In the shifting of the ash, something had been stirred to the surface, a bit of unburned paper. With great delicacy, Dawson reached, pulling it out with two fingers and squinting through soot as he read what remained.

“Next time…” John Dawson heard Lennon’s voice as he repeated the message of that insidious, jeering phone call. [_“Next time, we’ll let him stay awake for the party…”_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/52903531)

 _Christ Almighty, was it is that’s been planned?_ John Dawson thought, sitting back on his knees in horror. _Who the hell is behind all this?_

Casting a look in Paul’s direction as he made sure the young man was asleep, the cop grabbed the phone and found a number in his notebook. After a few rings, a man’s voice answered. “Roger, it’s me, John. I’m sorry to call so late, but… I need your help. 


	7. Bein' Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of the new chaos that's come into Paul's life, John Lennon's inner green-eye-monster is set loose. He makes a complete ass of himself by throwing some awful allegations Paul's way, and even suggesting that the younger man is to blame for his own rape. This is John's own PTSD coming to the surface, now, at a most inconvenient time. And it's going to get worse. The more events begin to bear down on the couple, the more out of control he is becoming, and it's becoming harder and harder for him to rein in his rage. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Paul is thinking of 'ending it all' and we're not sure exactly what that means.
> 
> I did warn you that January and February were going to be very rough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul and John have a very rocky road immediately before them. January and February are going to be cruel, and cool, months between them. 
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with the story, even though right now there isn't a lot of fluff or lovey-dovely stuff. There won't be for a bit, yet. Next chapter will take a week or more, as work is very busy.

“Paul? Paulie love,” John Dawson was leaning over the couch, gently shaking Paul McCartney’s shoulder as he whispered into his ear. “time to wake up, son.”

Not for the first time, the cop watched in amusement as Paul seemed to awaken section-by-section, his long limbs stretching out in turn, and his spine crackling noisily before he finally opened his eyes.

“Ugh,” Macca yawned as he shook his head. “Did I sleep here all night?”

“Aye, you did,” Dawson answered, handing him a cup of tea as he finally sat up.”

“Don’t even recall it,” the younger man slurped and made a face as he scalded his tongue. “Slept like a stone, aye?”

“Not surprised,” the cop smiled. “You’ve had a week and then some, haven’t you?”

Putting the tea down, Paul leaned forward, rubbing his face. “And then some on top of that, even.” He looked about the room with a curious expression. “Where’d you sleep?”

“Haven’t really. Dozed in the chair a bit. You should go shower, now, love,” Dawson patted his shoulder. “I’m heading out in a bit and didn’t want to leave you all undone. Got Lennon coming over.”

“You called him?”

“Yes, Paulie darling,” the cop smirked. “Seems I’m not gifted in mental telepathy, after all, and had to use the telephone, like most humans.”

“Ah, yer a smart-ass,” Paul smiled up at him. “Nobody likes smart-asses, you know.”

“I submit your entire career as evidence to the contrary,” Dawson helped him up, put the cup of tea into Paul’s hand and directed him toward his bedroom. “Go. Get cleaned up and you’ll feel more the thing. I’ll have eggs for you when you come out.”

“Wait, wait, big cop, hang on…” Macca resisted the push, choosing instead to pull his friend into a full-on hug. “Thank you, John Dawson.”

“For nothing,” the detective said, returning the embrace.

“I’m sorry you haven’t slept. Don’t know how you’ll do for the day.”

“I’ll manage, son. Coppers learn to sleep on their feet, you know.”

“Still though,” Paul pulled away, his face showing a blush. “I’m sorry I keep bothering you, keep intruding on your peace. I’m sorry I’m so needy.” 

“You’re an idiot, you know, and you’ve nothing to apologize for.” Dawson recommenced the hug. “I’ll always come if you need me, Paul. And before you ask, _no,_ [I am most emphatically _not falling in love with you.”_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/57199693)

“Oh, you Bastard,” Macca chuckled.

The cop let the younger man go with a sound kiss to his cheek. “You’re my friend. And that you trust me to help you makes it my privilege. Now, go!”

He was just putting the finishing touches at the table when John Dawson heard a noise and, expecting Lennon, peered toward the entry. There was a paper on the floor, obviously just slid in. With a muttered curse he rushed over, flinging the door open with a crash. _There_. A man in a trench coat about to enter the stairwell. “Oi,” he called out taking great strides toward him. “What’s this all about then?” he demanded like a downstreet bobby.

The man who had introduced himself to Paul as Terrence halted, eyes widening at Dawson’s furious expression. “Oh,” he said, sounding a bit frightened as he took off his fedora. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You didn’t disturb _me_ ,” the cop said, his face saying otherwise. “But who are you? And what the devil are you doing, shoving notes under doors?”

“I-I…” Terrence’s hands fluttered to his glasses as he adjusted them nervously. He looked a perfect milquetoast. “I do beg your pardon,” he said tentatively. “My name is Terrence, and I--”

“Ah, _Terrence_ , and do you make it a habit to go about shoving notes under men’s doors?”

“It was ju-just an invitation…” Terry stammered. “I didn’t like to disturb Paul if he was still sleeping, so--”

At the word _‘invitation’_ , John Dawson’s expression grew fiery, and the grey-haired man seemed to shrink before him like a shuddering rabbit. “And what sort of an _invitation_ would that be, now?”

“Tea!” A voice came from behind him. Paul was standing at his doorway in a fluffy terrycloth robe, a towel around his shoulders as he rubbed at his hair with one hand, and waved the paper in at Dawson with the other. “He’s inviting me to tea, aren’t you, Terry?”

“Y-yes!” The man sounded relieved to hear it said out loud.

“John Dawson, this is the fella I told you about,” Paul explained, taking a few steps out of his apartment. “Invited me in for tea after I carried a box for him and then realized he hadn’t--”

“I hadn’t been to market,” Terry’s soft burr took up the narrative. “So, I had no tea.” He smiled warmly at Paul as the lad advanced toward them. “Was merely rectifying my error.” He looked up at John Dawson, once more. “And I am sorry, I didn’t know anyone else lived there, but of course, you would be very welcome, too.”

The big cop, finding none of this amusing -- and as annoyed as any copper would be to be caught over-reacting -- rolled his eyes. “Next time why don’t you try knocking like a normal person,” he suggested to Terry in a resentful sort of growl.

“Well, it’s very early, as I said--”

“ _Down_ , John, down boy,” Paul teased Dawson. “You’re scarin’ him half to death, ain’t you?” He smiled at Terry – a perfunctory smile, but he figured manners mattered when a man was trembling before the likes of John Dawson, who looked to be mere seconds away from declaring a rampage. “You’re welcome to join us for breakfast, if you like.”

Terry’s face opened up as though the sun had just come through a cloud. “That’s—that’s very kind of you, Paul, but no, I cannot. Off to work. Just… I really just wanted to let you know you are always welcome to pop down for a cuppa, when you get the urge. Away from home, you know, so always glad for the company.”

“Well, perhaps later in the week.” Over the years Paul had perfected the gentle letdown, knew how to say, ‘no, I don’t think so,’ while helping the other to save face. As Terry nodded gratefully, Macca looked down, pretending to be surprised at his own state of undress. “And whoops, I need to put myself together don’t I? Have a good day, then…”

As he turned, he spied his partner exiting the lift. John Lennon’s expression changing from pleasure to suspicion in a nano-second.

“Hey, John love,” Paul tossed his head in greeting.

“Macca,” Lennon’s look was simultaneously icy and too oily by half as he cast a look toward the two men still standing by the stairway. “Who’s this, then? Am I late for something?” 

“Ah, he’s just leavin’,” Paul shrugged dismissively as he re-entered his doorway. “Be with you in a mo’, then. Getting’ dressed.”

Lennon, raising an eyebrow toward the cop and the unknown man, followed him in.

“What was all that about,” he asked Dawson moments later, as the cop shut the door and immediately headed toward Macca’s room. “Paul,” he called out, sounding like an annoyed parent. “I want to talk to you!”

John Lennon brought up the rear, still wondering what the hell was going on, and taking umbrage at the cop’s tone. _No one talks to Macca like that except me_. He stepped inside Paul’s bedroom – _our bedroom_ , he thought – while Dawson loitered in the doorway.

His back to both of them, Paul had cast off his robe and was naked, stepping into his drawers. He missed the look of stark hunger that momentarily played over Lennon’s face, and the simple amusement on Dawson’s. As he bent over to slip into his jeans, his partner couldn’t quite stifle a groan.

In truth, both men were looking at Paul as though he were a museum sculpture on display, fully appreciating the way the denim clung to his thighs and his arse. Paul liked his trousers a bit on the snug side, and his jeans to fit even more closely. Just now, given his dampness, the pants looked molded to him – nearly painted on – and Macca seemed completely unconscious of the effect he gave off as he found a clean shirt. “What was it you wanted, then, John?” He murmured as he buttoned up.

“Christ, I can’t believe you’re askin’, lad,” Lennon choked out, sounding like he was trying, and failing, to joke around.

Paul looked up with a frown. “Was talking to John Dawson, wasn’t I? He was the one making those ‘angry daddy’ sounds, yeah?”

“As well I should,” Dawson began while. John Lennon joined Macca on the bed as he gathered his socks. “First of all--”

“What were you thinking, Paul,” Lennon interrupted, “going out into the hallway dressed like that, just a robe and nothing under it?”

Paul laughed and threw a look at his partner. “Was thinkin’ the big cop was loaded for bear and I wanted to see the poor chap he was getting ready to maul, didn’t I?” He reached about, searching for his slippers as he turned to the cop. “Also, I’d seen the note. Knew there was nothin’ to it.”

“I’ll decide when there’s nothing to it, son,” Dawson argued gruffly. “You have no idea who that man is.”

“No, nor do you. He was nearly pissin’ himself, though, with all your growlin’.”

“We’ll talk about this over breakfast,” the cop growled, sounding exactly like an aggrieved Papa Bear. “It’s getting cold.”

John Lennon could only wonder at it as the two men continued to grouse at each other as familiarly as family. He didn’t like it. It seemed a level too close, too intimate for his own sense of security and comfort. He felt quite the outsider, even with his lover right there beside him, and he didn’t like it at all.

“Son, I’ll say it again,” Dawson was softly but firmly barking across the breakfast table. “You don’t know who that man is.”

“He’s a lonely, scared old man who wants a bit of company, John Dawson,” Paul shrugged. “Pretty sure he couldn’t hurt a fly.”

The cop leaned forward, catching the younger man’s eye and holding it. “Paul, my blood ran cold to see him using the stairway. Do you understand what that means? It means someone has a way to get to your floor that bypasses the concierge and the liftboy. It’s a security nightmare.”

The two Beatles both stopped chewing as Dawson’s words sank in. John Lennon was the first to speak up. “That’s true,” he said. “But it’s true of the whole building, isn’t it? Anyone can take the stairs…”

“‘Anyone’ is not a new arrival situated precisely one floor down and shoving notes under the door, insinuating himself into Paul’s life.”

Lennon’s teacup clattered into its saucer at the cop’s words. “Oh, I don’t like that, Macca,” he turned to Paul. “At the very least we need to find out who this fellow is.”

“MacKenzie,” Paul answered. “N.T. MacKenzie. Or M.T. I think it’s M.T., because I remembered thinking it sounded like ‘empty’.” Paul looked up at Dawson. “I asked the other day,” he explained. “When I was askin’ about, you know, how Miss Tildy got up without being announced.”

“What’s this now?” Lennon’s eyebrows were up.

“It’s nothing, love…” Paul went into a long description of the day before, filling John Lennon in on helping Terry, and his subsequent collapse in the stairwell, and then the surprise of Miss Tildy. “And then, of course… once I looked at the mail… I called John Dawson for help.” his voice drifted off as he poured more tea.

John had listened to the whole narrative with a growing sense of unease, but he wasn’t sure what was bothering him more, the fact that Paul had had a flashback of memory with no one near to help him, or that – as on New Year’s Eve, when he’d arrived home early from Wirral -- his first call was to John Dawson and not to himself.

“Why didn’t you call me, Paulie,” his tone was deliberately, deceptively mild. “And why did you need help after looking at the mail?”

Paul blushed, immediately glancing at John Dawson, who – understanding the green-eyed monster that was constantly lurking within Lennon – decided to share a little of what he held in his possession.

“I was closer-at-hand, wasn’t I,” the cop began. “And it was late. Paul mentioned that he didn’t want you driving late and possibly worried.”

“Is that right, Paul?” Lennon was seeking out his eyes. “You can always call me, though. I _want_ you to call me--”

“I get anxious, sometimes,” Paul admitted, “that you’ll kill yourself trying to get to me. And then how do I live with that?”

“Paul,” his partner frowned, taking his hand.

“The reason I want to leave soon,” Dawson butted in, “is because I want to see if I can interview that fellow, Rupert Chalice, before my shift, and also before I must turn the mail over to… the other investigators. The official chaps, you know. And to be perfectly honest,” John Dawson decided to add, “Paul didn’t want you to see the mail, John, it’s as simple as that.”

“Well, why not,” Lennon demanded, shutting his mouth as the cop handed him the magazines, already turned to the awful pages. He fished out his glasses, carefully perusing the back-page collage from _Hot Men_. “What is this, then?” After a moment, he recognized his Macca, arms holding him from behind, another’s hand grasping at his cock from the front. His self-interested anger immediately turned to fear. “Oh, no. Oh, Paulie, love…”

Paul, his face ablaze with shame, was looking into his own lap, anxiously playing with his fingers. He shook his head, indicating he could not speak.

The second magazine, with the cut-outs arranged over sickening images, brought a loud curse from Lennon, who threw the thing down on the table and leapt from his seat with such agitation that the chair fell to the floor. “No, goddammit, no, what is this? _What is this?_ Where did those pictures come from? Are you tellin’ me the pictures are out there, now? That Paulie’s whole ordeal is going to be showin’ up in filth like this, and we can’t stop it?” He could barely breathe for the fire in his chest. “I thought you said this shit was over?”

“John, calm down,” Paul was reaching a hand out to him, even as his gaze remained downward. “Please just sit. There’s… there’s _news.”_

With a glare at Dawson – for no fault against that good man, but he needed to glare at someone – John righted his chair and sat it next to Macca’, putting on arm around his partner’s shoulders. Paul immediately leaned against him with a sigh, and Lennon’s own heart quickly grew calmer as he pressed his head to his lover’s. “You should have called me, baby,” he murmured, lightening his tone. “You should have. I understand why you didn’t, but I hate it, too. You should always call me…”

Paul shook his head once more, curiously silent, offering no apologies.

Dawson explained as much as he believed John needed to know at that moment – which did not include anything about Valentine’s Day. As he relayed his suspicions the two young men shared one of those moments -- felt too rarely, lately -- that required no words. Paul relaxed into John’s embrace and simply permitted himself to be held, Dawson’s all-too-familiar tale passing right over his head. For his part, John Lennon felt his first inkling of contentment with Paul since Christmas Day, when they’d kissed in the shadows of his back garden, while the women had slept. He could feel his anger lift and his own anxiety begin to abate as he took in the scent of Paul’s shampoo, and kissed his head. _All I want to do is love this man_ , he thought. _Why does it always feel so difficult, anymore? And I’ve missed this_.

Dawson, having told as much as he believed John Lennon could handle ( _and Paul can tell him the rest if he so chooses…_ ), stood as he downed the last bit of his tea. “So, that’s that,” he sighed, wiping his lips with a napkin. “I’m off to [see this ‘Cholly’ once again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478873/chapters/73271259), to find how it is that someone made copies of his photos, and then to the rest. Oh, Paul,” his voice dipped lower and his tone softened, “I may want to come back tonight, to discuss some of this a bit more.”

“Come for supper,” Paul, unburying his face from John’s shoulder, sounded a bit dazed.

“ _Bring_ supper, more like,” Dawson chuckled. “You’ve nothing to eat, here.”

“All the better.” Pulling himself out of John’s arms, Macca rose and followed the big cop into the sitting room, helping him shrug into his coat. “But I’ll ask Brian’s office to have groceries sent by.” He seemed not to notice it when Dawson spied Terry’s invitation to tea and stuffed it into his front pocket. The cop was grateful for that.

“Get some rest,” Paul urged the cop in a soft voice, settling his lapels and patting his shoulder. He smiled at him as he handed him his hat. “You look awful.”

“I’d say the same to you,” John Dawson smiled back. The two men kissed each other’s cheeks in farewell, and the copper was gone.

And just like that -- as with the flick of a switch -- John Lennon, watching from the kitchen doorway, felt his inner monster take giant leap forward. When Paul turned back toward him, he saw his partner leaning against the kitchen’s doorway, arms crossed, his lips pressed into a thin line of annoyance. “Well, what a pretty pair you make,” he sneered, shaking his head.

“What?” Paul shrugged as he picked up a stray teacup and headed toward him.

“You and John Dawson – kissing each other goodbye, like an old married couple. You helping him into his coat like the good little wife. Or the daddy bear’s good son.”

“Oh, fuck off John,” Paul said dismissively, refusing to take his partner’s jealousy seriously. “I kiss everyone I can hello and goodbye these days, and you know it. Georgie, Ritchie, Brian…life’s too short, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t kiss me hello, today.”

Paul turned from the sink, where he’d begun to rinse things, and cocked his head to the side. “Did I not?”

“No, son, you didn’t.”

“Well, let me correct that,” Paul smiled, laying his wet hands upon John’s shirt and pulling him into a sweet, soft kiss. “Hello, then, darling,” he murmured. “And good morning.”

Lennon didn’t respond immediately, keeping his hands in his pockets and his lips resolutely closed. He felt like a child who was being offered his heart’s desire after a tantrum, but was too spiteful to take it.

“Come on, Johnny, don’t be that way,” Paul cooed, bring his hands up to his partner’s face. “You know you’re being silly. Let me kiss you proper, then.”

He almost gave in. He really wanted to. John Lennon wanted nothing better than to feel his lover lick into his mouth, moist and warm, and to take him into his arms. To be honest, he wanted more than that. Wanted to feel the press of Paul’s body against his. Wanted to touch his ass and draw him nearer. Wanted the heat below, and the grind. _Fuck it all, I want him. I want Paul,_ he thought. _And he makes me wait and wait. Instead all I get is the floor show. Watchin’ him and Dawson carryin’ on like… like…_

He felt Paul pull back, saw the question in his eyes. “What’s wrong, Johnny? You’re not seriously thinking that there’s something for you to be jealous over, are you?”

“Where’d he sleep last night?” Lennon couldn’t withhold the flinty note in his voice.

“In the chair, I think,” Paul frowned at him. “I fell asleep on the couch, you know, after--”

“After what,” John spat. “After you spent the night with him, porin’ over those pictures.”

“Stop that,” Paul pushed away, turning to clear the table. “You’re being ridiculous, John. You have no idea what you’re talking about. I can’t even believe you’re saying that. As though we’d enjoy--”

“Well, I think it’s all pretty fair of me to wonder about,” John was working himself into what he felt was a bit of righteous rage. “Dawson called me up this morning and asked me to come here--”

“Which is not something he’d do, if I was fucking around with him, would he,” Paul objected. “ _Think,_ John. You’re not making sense. You’re just letting your insecurity get to--”

“Well, maybe he’s in love with you and that’s the only reason he called. And I rushed over here, thinking something’s really wrong, and that you needed me – needed _me,_ Paul! And there are you are, out in the hallway half-naked, smiling at that fellow…”

“I was not half naked!”

“You were naked under your robe and anyone could see it,” John ranted possessively. “What were you _thinking?”_

“I was thinking about stoppin’ John from tearing apart that milky little man,” Paul corrected.

“ _Bullshit,_ Paul. You were giving both of them a nice little show of your chest, all wet and shiny like that, the whole shape of you!” John’s voice cracked as it rose. His face was growing flushed with anger. “And then you just got dressed – don’t even close the door, or take it into the bathroom. You just whipped it all off, all in front of us, showing off your naked ass to _him--”_ John flung.

“Yes, I was _getting dressed_ , that’s all! You both saw my naked ass, John, because that’s what happens when a man is dressing, and I didn’t think it--”

“No, you didn’t think!” Lennon was truly yelling now. “You _never_ think. That’s what got you into this whole mess, to start with, isn’t it? You show yourself around, looking like that, you talking to anyone. You…you--”

 _“How fucking dare you?”_ The words exploded out of Paul McCartney as he spun to face him. “How fucking dare you suggest that anything I did brought all of this about?” He threw down the dishtowel, storming out of the room. “If that’s what you really think, then you should leave, John. Just go home. I don’t need you here.”

“No, you don’t, do you? You’ve got your precious Dawson, now your darling ‘big cop’.” John followed him, too furious to realize what he’d just done, or to be mindful of his words. “You’ve got your _daddy bear_ , now. You don’t need me, anymore, do you? You come home early from Wirral, and you call _Daddy_. You have a little scare in the night, you call _Daddy!”_

“A little scare!” As Paul entered his bedroom he turned around, his face was scarlet with fury. “Is that what you think,” he all but screamed at his partner. “Is that really what you think? Well then, _fuck you, John Lennon! Go fuck yourself!_ You want me behind the fucking bedroom door, then? You've got it!”

He slammed the door so hard the walls shook. Lennon heard the door locks tumble. Never knowing when – or how – to stop, he pounded on the door with his fist. “Oh, that’s what you’re going to do, now, run away and hide? Lock yourself in your room, like some wounded bird, instead of talking to me like a grown man.”

“Just go, John.” The door did nothing to disguise Paul’s own sense of rage. “You’re such a big man, you know everything? Then you know I don’t want you here.” His last words broke as Macca’s throat constricted. If he wasn’t crying, he was about to.

Lennon pounded at the door. “Let me in, you cowardly bastard, or I’ll bust this fuckin’ door down.”

“Oh yeah? And then what are you going to do then, John,” Macca’s words sounded wet. “Gonna hit me? Gonna beat me about until you feel better, or until I tell you that everything you’re accusing me of is right, even when you’re the farthest thing from it? Just so _you_ can feel better? You fucking psychopath!” John heard a distant sounding moan. Paul was likely on his bed, now, and his words were less distinct.

“Open this door, Paul, right now! I’m not going to hit you…” John heard his words as he watched his fist pound the door once more and in a bare instant, his fury collapsed. Did Paul just ask him whether John would beat him? Had it got that bad? He looked at his hand – a tightly closed fist of pure fury -- and closed his eyes, leaning against the locked door. _I’ve never hit him; I’d never hit Paul. Why would he ever even say it?_ But yeah, he’d been pretty worked up. _Then again, he’s never locked me out like this…_

“Paul,” Lennon sighed, his forehead against the door. “I’m… sorry. You know I’m not going to hit you. I never have. I can’t believe you even thought that…” _Well, maybe if you’d not acted like the greatest beast in nature…_ “Please, just open the door?”

Only silence came through.

“What if I… Paul, what if I call the lads over, yeah? We spend the day together. You know Geo and Rings will be good company, yeah?”

John couldn’t make out what he was saying, anymore, but it sounded a bit like, “fuck off, wanker…”

“Paul… Paulie, please? Open the door?” Lennon’s voice sounded as contrite as he suddenly felt. _No one ever said I wasn’t mercurial,_ he thought. “Baby? Please?”

He could hear movement, and after a few seconds, the door opened, Paul standing there in his stocking feet, his face full of tears, but refusing to look at his partner. He shook his head and padded back, laying down on his bed, his back to Lennon.

“God, I’m sorry, Paul. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

A sniff was the only answer he was getting, so John crept in, feeling a bit humbled and horrified. He sat on the edge of the bed, not daring to lay down, and put one trembling hand to his partner’s shuddering shoulder. “Paulie, love. Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“You don’t even know…” Paul muttered, pressing his face into the pillow to stifle his sobs. “You don’t even _know…”_

“Know what, baby? Please tell me. Hell, the reason I’m a madman half the time is that I want to know everything, and I feel like…I feel like you’re leaving me out… Paul? Like you and Dawson have your own little club, now, and I’m not in it…” Lennon gulped hard, his own throat feeling raw. “If you…if you love John Dawson--”

“Oh, God,” Macca all but wailed in frustration, finally turning to face him. “You _idiot!_ You’re such a… stupid ass--”

“I know, I’m sorry, I get jealous, but it’s just that I love you, baby,” John’s words were a soft pleading. “I just…can’t bear the thought.”

“Then just stop thinking!” Paul sat up, reaching for a tissue from his night stand. “Stop thinking, for once in your fucking life, John!” He put his head in his hands. “You don’t know anything. You just live in your head and grow your sore feelings and your delusions and your paranoia. You imagine everyone’s working against you. And you don’t even know…”

John nodded his head, feeling properly chastised. He rubbed small circles into Paul’s back. “I want to know, baby, I do. What is it?”

Paul shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m alive,” he muttered, more to himself than to John.

“Don’t say that,” Lennon, a chill rising up his spine, moved his head nearer. “Don’t ever say that, Paulie. I need you.”

“Don’t know if I can do this, John.”

“Paul?” John brought his hands to his lover’s face. “What is it?”

Macca shook his head, laying back and tossing an arm across his face. With his other hand he counted off with his fingers. “I was raped by four men. I almost died. There’s photographs of it out there, now – of me bein’ raped. Of me cryin’,” he groaned. “There’s a plot to get at me again, and I don’t know how many.” He lifted his arm, giving John a pointed look. “And now you! _You’re_ accusing me of fucking’ around with a friend I love. But he’s just a friend, John. Just a _friend._ ”

He covered his face once more. “I can’t. If you’re going to go all mad jealous on me, accusing me of… when you know I’ve never cheated on you, I never would…” His voice went rough and low. “I can’t do this, anymore. I’m better off dead, John. I should just slit my wrists and be done.”

“No, Paul, never say it. _Never!”_ Lennon leaned over his partner, wiping the tears from his face. “Please, just tell me. What plot? You said there is a plot?”

“It came in the mail,” Paul closed his eyes, unable to bear John’s own fearful look. “It’s… bad.”

“Worse than those pictures? In the magazines?” John asked, unable to imagine anything worse.

“He… _they,_ maybe, I don’t know how many, but it seems like just one… [He wants a date with me.”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478873/chapters/73328448)

 _“A date,”_ Lennon frowned. “What kind of date? What’s he mean a _date?”_

“Dancing,” Paul groaned. “One of these perverted bastard wants to dance with me, and then fuck me. ‘No pain, only bliss,’ he says.” The younger man shook his head, his face a picture of abject misery. “Valentine’s day. He wants me to… ‘be his Valentine’.”

“Christ Almighty!”

“Aye.” Macca reached for John’s hand, holding it tightly in both of his own. “It’s one of them… one of the four,” he gulped. “He says if I just agree, if I meet him and do this, he’ll…”

“But, no, baby, no, that won’t happen.”

Paul’s face collapsed into a look of woebegotten helplessness. “Said if I do it, he’ll give me all the pictures, all the negatives. Says it’s a promise.”

“Oh, baby,” John hauled his partner into his arms, holding him close. “ _No,_ sweetheart. You can’t believe him… or them... Christ,” he repeated. “When will this nightmare be over?”

Paul’s voice came up from somewhere deep within John’s embrace. “I’m…” he seemed to be gulping back bile. “I’m thinking I should do it. It might be the only way. To end it all.”


End file.
